~~~~~~
The sun was low in the early autumn sky, setting the western horizon on fire, coloring the dusty leaves of the beet plants a deep, mossy green.
The family gravestones were chalk-white in the dry grass, and the light filtered through the line of windbreak trees, illuminating the wings of insects and the pointed beaks of evening birds. Here and there, streaks of orange, deep red, and yellow had begun to appear in the foliage and, despite the Indian summer glow of dusk, the clear evening sky announced to anyone who was inclined to notice such things that it would be a cool night.
The barn doors were thrown open wide, framing three long tables laid with checkered cloths, tall candles, and heavy plastic plates. A slight breeze made the flames flicker and kicked up low-lying eddies of fine dust. Nearby, a fourth table had been set up, serving trays at the ready, Sterno cans open but cool beneath them.
From inside the farmhouse came a wheeze and a shudder loud enough to give the crepuscular birds reason to scatter. A man's voice called, out and over the commotion, "... a Schrute family recipe, from the old country!" There was a scream of metal-on-metal and the quiet returned. "Here, try some!" The tenor thump of a popping cork. "My grandmutter used to bottle and sell our wine at the fair, but the state made her stop. Bunch of nonsense, really - everyone knows that Millie Jaeger went blind because she was a compulsive knitter. Try and tell that to those jackasses in Harrisburg, though. Prost!"
While the cameraman was choking and clutching the butcher block table in the massive Schrute family kitchen, the reason that he had "accidentally" shown up a half-hour earlier than planned stealthily opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, carrying her low-heeled, sensible shoes in her left hand. She held the screen door as it swung shut, aware that it would squeak if left to snap back into its frame on its own. After noting the cars and glancing over her shoulder into the house, Angela let her shoes fall to the boards and attended to the small annoyance of closing the last three inches of her dress's zipper on her own. She gripped the fabric between her shoulder blades, arched her back slightly, and just managed it, all the while listening to Dwight natter on in the kitchen for the benefit of the cameramen, who was politely, if firmly, refusing another sample of the very local vintage.
Upstairs, wearing one of his dress shirts like a bathrobe, Angela had made Dwight take off his tuxedo, handing him a plaid shirt and a pair of khakis from his closet instead. She had sat him down on the unmade bed, run a wet comb through his mussed hair, cleaned his glasses, and kissed his forehead. When he had reached out to hold her hips, she turned away, retreating into the bathroom until she heard the cameraman calling Dwight's name from the front hall.
She took in the view - the sunset, the fields, the set tables - and sighed heavily. Playing host to her engagement party had been Dwight's idea and, of course, Andy had agreed. Neither of them had bothered to seek Angela's approval until she demanded to know what all of the whispering was about. Andy, practically in tears, told her that it was supposed to be a surprise. Dwight just smiled.
Mose was in the barn, twenty-five feet off the floor, clinging to a rafter with one arm, wrapping a string of Christmas lights around it with the other. His swinging legs made the paper lanterns he had hung wobble as he shimmied past. She shielded her eyes to watch him for a moment. When he noticed her, he waved, lost his balance, and dropped with an almost alarming ease to a pile of tarps on the barn floor. Even though experience had taught her that he was okay, Angela crossed the yard to check on him.
"Mose?" She laid her hand on the door as she passed, and thought better of it almost immediately. Delicately, she brushed paint chips and bits of wood from her palm, holding her hands away from her body and her new dress.
He emerged from the tarps, dusting himself off. "Hi, Angela! What do you think?" He hurried to a switch on the wall, flipped it, and the entire ceiling of the barn lit up with tiny white lights and glowing paper orbs. Two nesting bats resented the intrusion and exited over her head.
"It's beautiful, Mose." He was dusty and wide-eyed. Her compliment seemed to relieve him.
"I'm gonna go get ready," Mose departed as swiftly as the bats had, leaving Angela to look up at the ceiling in silence. She rested a fist on her hip and let her head fall all the way back for a moment, contemplating the rafters. She heard the crunch of car tires and the tinny pop whine of a car stereo, but allowed herself one more minute before turning around and twisting her mouth into a placid smile.
Andy parked his car next to hers and emerged, grinning broadly. "Hello, darling!" He hurried around to the trunk and produced a large, elaborately wrapped box.
She furrowed her brow as she stepped out of the barn. A faint breeze, the first gasp of cool evening air, tugged at the hem of her dress. "What's that?"
He crossed the yard and laid the package in her arms. "A present for my future," he said, made a small bow, and kissed her on the cheek.
Angela stared at him for a moment before she turned. "Let's put it inside," she headed for the steps and he followed close on her heels. "Why would you get me something? It's our party."
"I know, but I wanted to."
Dwight came into the living room as Angela was placing the gift on the table. "Hello, Andy. Welcome to Schrute Farms." He was wearing a blue calico apron over his clothes. His words were stretched thin on a rack of forced politeness.
"Well, thank you very much, sir." Andy's voice was round and booming. They shook hands. "This is quite the place you have here."
"We think so. This is my cousin, Mose," Dwight gestured to the stairs, where Mose stood, wearing Dwight's tuxedo, the tie undone and laying around his neck.
Andy gave a small wave, "Hello."
"Mose, this is our guest of honor, Andrew Bernard, and his fiancee, Angela Martin."
Mose said nothing, but gave Angela a long, hard look, before he turned and retreated upstairs. Dwight smiled apologetically and shook his head. "You'll have to forgive him. We're still working on his city manners."
~~~~~
Out in the yard, a few feet from the porch, Pam and Jim stood holding hands. He was fidgeting with her ring with his middle finger, a habit that had a lot in common with nail-biting or compulsive list-making, but with a decidedly matrimonial flavor. It said more about his current preoccupations than the brochure from the tux place stuck to his fridge.
"Let's go home," He suggested, feeling a small, unconscious frisson of satisfaction as he worked the diamond all the way around to her palm.
Pam shook her head, readjusting her fingers around the handle of the gift bag she held. It contained a vase decorated with a cat-themed mosaic. She had found it at a craft fair in Williamsburg the day before, in a booth one over from where she had helped her classmate hawk screen-printed clothing. In exchange, she was wearing a navy cardigan, dotted with tiny blue owls perched on equally tiny blue branches, and jeans. "We drove all this way."
"I'll fix dinner and draw you a bath. Lots of bubbles."
"Jim--"
"I'll rub your back?"
She laughed. "You are--"
"Your feet?"
She rolled her eyes. "It'll be fine."
"It'll be completely bizarre."
"Like I said, fine. I kind of want to see everyone." She tugged on his hand and turned to stand in front of him, pushing her ring back to its proper position with her pinkie finger. "Now kiss me before Michael gets here. You can rub my feet later."
He complied and she led him across the yard.
~~~~~
"Hello?" There was a smart tap on the doorframe, but, before Dwight could cross the room to answer, Jim and Pam let themselves in. "Are we too early?"
Dwight relieved Pam of her gift and added it to the table. "No, you're just in time. We were about to toast the bride-to-be and the groom. In the kitchen."
The very beginnings of the party filed down the hall, where Dwight poured everyone a drink from one of the dark green, unlabeled bottles arrayed on the buffet. As everyone reached for a glass, Dwight held his up. "To Angela!"
When he showed no signs of continuing, Angela added, "and Andy!"
Pam glanced over at Jim, trying to catch his eye, but he was studying the two fingers of bright magenta liquid in his glass. "What is this, Dwight?"
"Schrute family recipe. Beet wine."
Jim took an experimental sniff, then jerked his head back quickly. "Dwight, is this moonshine?"
"Don't be such a baby, you baby. My grandfather drank this every day and he lived over a century." Again, Dwight raised his glass, regaining the momentum of the toast. "Prost!"
Jim shrugged, returned the gesture, and muttered, "L'chaim," before knocking back the contents of his glass. The kitchen was silent for a handful of seconds before the coughing began. The cameraman, huddled in the corner, his hands too busy to possibly accept another drink, smiled.
Dwight held up the bottle. "Who wants more? There's plenty to go around!"
~~~~~
Story Notes:
Disclaimer - we don't own 'em, but they sure are fun to take a turn around the floor with.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Hi everyone, Talkative here. I'm going to get us started. Many, many thanks to Annabel - this was her idea.
Chapter End Notes:
What say you, Ms. Winslow?
