“What time is it?” he managed to ask. His voice sounded thick, the words slurred.
“It’s past ten. It’s hot, but it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“Then why is the room so dark?”
“I thought it might be easier on your eyes.” She walked over to the window and raised the shade. A blinding light caused a splitting pain to drive to the center of George’s brain. He grabbed his head again, the palms of his hands pressed hard against his eyes.
“Yes, a lovely day to be sure.” He meant to sound good-humored, even if a bit reluctant. He just sounded angry.
Rose laughed softly. “I don’t imagine you feel that way at all, but you can’t lie in bed all day. Do you think you can sit up?”
No, he didn’t. He thought the effort would kill him, but he knew he had to try.
“They just sent up a pot of coffee.”
If sitting up didn’t kill him, that would. He hated coffee. If he remembered correctly, he had drunk a hell of a lot of it last night. Somewhere he’d heard the wages of sin were death. Well, he had sinned, but apparently the angels thought death wasn’t punishment enough. They were going to keep him alive until every possible bit of agony had been squeezed out of him.
There was no use putting it off any longer. He had to sit up. If he died in the process, it might not be a bad thing.
George sat up.
He thought his eyes would fall out of his head and yank out the center of his brain. Rose faded into the mists. It was a full minute before he could bring her into focus again.
“I must have really tied one on,” he said. That was obvious to any fool, but his powers of conversation were extremely limited at the moment. He was surprised he remembered enough words to put together a sentence.
“According to Salty, you drank a toast with every man in town.”
“Did anybody think to remind me I don’t drink?”
“Nobody knew.”
“Why would they, when I was busy piling up proof to the contrary?”
George sat on the edge of the bed, his head resting on his hands, his elbows on his knees. He didn’t even want to think of the impression Rose was getting of her new husband. It couldn’t possibly make her chirping merry. He raised his head and was rewarded by new circles of pain boring into the base of his skull.
“Are you ready for some coffee?”
“No, but give it to me anyway. I might as well start paying for my sins.”
George had forgotten how much he hated the taste of coffee. Especially Texas coffee. It tasted as if it had been boiled for hours in a pot with acorns, pecan hulls, and some weed which made it taste like alkali and acid at the same time.
He drank it anyway. He kept hoping someone would soon collect his debts, but it seemed the angel of death had slept late as well. He took another swallow. At least the taste helped him forget some of the pain. Now if he just didn’t get sick.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“No.” It was a groan rather than a spoken response.
“Good. I’ve got enough here for three people. Mrs. Spreckel said you’re to eat it all. She’s convinced that after last night you need to build up your strength.”
“Mrs. Spreckel?” The name made him think of a hen. A black and white one, all fussy and broody.
“You woke her up at one o’clock wanting hot water. Remember? You were determined to come to your marriage bed fresh as a daisy.”
If the coffee did kill him, it would be no less than he deserved. Surely his ignominy had already been broadcast far and wide. George breathed a deep sigh, swallowed the rest of the coffee, and handed the cup to Rose.
“Apparently I’ve made an impression that can only be countered by bold action. Bring on the breakfast and gallons of coffee. If I survive, and at the moment I sincerely hope I don’t, we shall parade through the town proud as peacocks, brazen as carpetbaggers, our heads held high, our gazes crossing swords with anyone who dares frown at us. And I shall do my best to pretend I know exactly where the ground is.”
Rose giggled.
George smiled in spite of himself. “Are you ever going to let me live this down?”
“Maybe.”
“You can’t tell the boys. Monty would never let me forget it.”
“You don’t think I would tell anyone, do you?”
“No, but I’ll have to remember not to make Salty angry. Or half the male population of Austin.”
“Salty says the men are rather in awe of you. I’d never think of celebrating my marriage that way, but men are strange, unaccountable creatures.”
“Yes, we are,” George agreed.
Once his eyes adjusted to the glare of the sun, George thoroughly enjoyed himself. He made it a point to stop every female he saw with a frown on her face or a crease on her forehead. He smiled and chatted and flattered until each of them went away with their wits knocked acock by his flood-tide of nonsensical prattle. He stopped people he’d never seen before and told them he was on his honeymoon. He stopped people Rose had never seen before and introduced his new wife. He was determined to look stupidly, blissfully, irritat-ingly happy. He wanted everyone in Austin to know he had married “that Yankee woman” and was proud of it.