Page 35 of Where the Rivers Merge

Spartina (Sporobolus alterniflorus) is a tall, smooth, perennial wetland grass that dominates tidal salt marshes of the South. Commonly called cordgrass, it is an important food source for many endemic and migratory birds. It also provides nursery and protective habitat for many aquatic species.

1926

On the first Saturday in June, I sat in the anteroom of St. Phillips Church surrounded by roses and lilies. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting colorful hues across my white wedding gown. This was a girl’s greatest moment, if my mother were to be believed. It should be my happiest. Yet, I didn’t feel especially happy. My gaze followed the elegant curve of the white stucco wall that reached high toward heaven. If fate had been different, I would be marrying Hugh today in this same church. Heyward and Covey would be at our sides. Lesesne would be living with Mama on East Bay. And Tripp . . .

I shook my head, feeling their absence. I couldn’t allow myself to fall into the trap of memories. I was marrying Tripp today. Lesesne and I had made a kind of peace and he sat beside my mother in the church. This was a happy day, I upbraided myself, bringing my bouquet of white roses closer to my chest.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Miss Rivers.”

Father Johannes entered dressed in his black cassock. He smiled apologetically. “I apologize for the disturbance. There’s someone here who wishes to see you.”

He stepped aside and from the vestibule a tall figure entered.

My father stepped tentatively into the room then stopped as the great wood door swung closed behind him. I slowly rose to stand. I hadn’t seen him since the day I’d left Mayfield a year earlier, not long after the fateful graduation dinner. I had packed my belongings and departed without another word to him, nor had I spoken to him or exchanged letters in all the months I’d been in Charleston. Not once.

We stood looking at one another in an awkward silence. Rawlins was dressed in a morning suit that was carefully tailored, still, the suit hung loosely from his gaunt figure and sloped shoulders. Alcohol had rendered him shockingly frail, and he was nervously fingering the top hat in his hands.

I licked my dry lips, my heart pounding. I had vowed I would not let this man walk me down the aisle. Not after his despicable disregard for me. I had not even invited him to the wedding.

“What are you doing here?”

I asked, mustering my resolve.

He held out his arms in supplication. “Eliza, I’m your father,”

he replied, his drawl falling soft on my ears. “My little girl is getting married. Where else would I be? I dreamed of this day since the day you were born.”

“Daddy . . .”

He straightened and said in the manner of a grand request, “It would be my greatest honor to walk you down the aisle.”

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I looked around for a handkerchief. “I’ll ruin my makeup.”

Daddy pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to me with a gentleman’s flair. While I dabbed my eyes, he hovered close.

“You look lovely.”

I drew away from him. “You broke my heart,”

I said, choking on the words.

“I’m sorry,”

he replied, sounding sincere. He set his top hat on a chair and stepped near, then took my left hand in both of his. He looked at my engagement ring. “It’s a beautiful ring.”

He looked at it a moment longer, then said, “What can I do to put things to right between us?”

I searched my father’s sunken face. Once vibrant and so full of life, the change told a somber story. Instead of the hope of a new dream, his eyes were rheumy and pale. They were the eyes of a man with no more stories to tell. I had loved this man. Loved him still. That love compelled me to offer him one more chance.

“Daddy, I know that you always wished to leave Mayfield to a son.”

I sighed with exasperation. “Male primogeniture will out.”

“Eliza—”

I put up my hand. “Hear me out. I have given up that fight. Today, I’m marrying Tripp and creating a new life in Charleston. Like you always told me I would.”

I took a shaky breath, willing myself to ask for the one gift that would mean the world to me. “But I will always love Mayfield. You know how much I love it. How much a part of me it is. If you could see your way to leaving me just a small piece of land. Perhaps the Sweetwater Pond property. I won that land back for the family, after all. Remember?”

I could feel my heart rate accelerate. “If I could have any small piece of Mayfield to call my own, to bring my husband and children to in the future, I would be content. You know I would be a good steward. Just that, Daddy.”

Tears filled my eyes. “Please.”

Daddy looked down at me from his height and straightened his shoulders. I caught a glimpse of the man who once stood tall at the head of the family table.

“I can never break up the property. You know that. I’m sorry.”

The chill of his words caused my tears to crystallize. My blood froze in my veins and my spine stiffened. “I’m sorry too.”

We were interrupted by another rapping on the door. Father Johannes appeared in a rush of excitement. His cassock rustled in the silence. “My dear, it’s time.”

Ruth, my maid of honor, entered behind him, resplendent in pale pink taffeta, carrying my bouquet. I thought, with a pang, of Covey. We had dreamed of this day for both of us, promised to be each other’s maid of honor. Seeing my father, Ruth paused abruptly.

“Oh,”

she said in a high voice of surprise. Her gaze shifted from my father to me. “Has . . . has there been a change in the program?”

I stepped forward to take my bouquet from her. “No. There will be no change.”

I turned to address my father. His blue eyes watched me now with faint understanding. I went to retrieve his top hat from the chair and handed it to him. “You don’t need to trouble yourself with a mere daughter. Go back to Mayfield. Please. You’re not needed here. Unlike you, I don’t hold to antiquated customs.”

He stood motionless, his mouth drooped open, his eyes seemingly confused.

I gathered my train in my hand and, with a rustle of silk, left my father standing alone in the cold stone anteroom.

The church was charged with anticipation and excitement as my bridesmaids assembled in a line beside the groomsmen. Ruth arranged the long train of my gown so that it spread smoothly behind me, then took her place. Father Johannes nodded his head, and the heavy wooden doors opened wide. At the cue, the pipe organ thundered out Wagner’s wedding march.

I paused at the threshold, my heart pounding. Ahead, fluted Corinthian columns supported the gallery, its boxed pews filled with the Charleston elite handsomely dressed in their finery.

Walking myself down the aisle would set the gossips fluttering. Had I made a mistake? Should I hurry back to fetch my father? I felt chilled and my feet would not move.

Then I saw Tripp at the altar. His fresh-faced smile elicited my own as all fear vanished. Tripp was always there when I needed him. And he was waiting for me.

I took a step forward, alone. I was ready to embark on this new journey.