Detective Barelli's Legendary Triplets

He downed another cup of punch. “Those were fireworks,” he said, color coming back into his face. “Not gunfire.”

She laughed. “Gunfire? In Wedlock Creek? There’s no hunting within town limits because of the tourism and there hasn’t been a murder in over seventy years. Plus, if you crane your neck, you can see a bit of the fireworks past the trees.”

He craned that beautiful neck, his shoulder leaning against hers. “Okay. Let’s go see.”

They walked hand in hand to the chapel, but by the time they got there—a few missed turns on the path due to their tipsiness—the fireworks display was over. The small group setting them off had already left the dock, folks clearing away back to the festival.

The Wedlock Creek chapel was all lit up, the river behind it illuminated by the glow of the almost full moon.

“I always dreamed of getting married here,” she said, gazing up at the beautiful white-clapboard building, which looked a bit like a wedding cake. It had a vintage Victorian look with scallops on the upper tiers and a bell at the top that almost looked like a heart. According to town legend, those who married here would—whether through marriage, adoption, luck, science or happenstance—be blessed with multiples: twins or triplets or even quadruplets. So far, no quintuplets. The town and county was packed with multiples of those who’d gotten married at the chapel, proof the legend was true.

For some people, like Norah, you could have triplets and not have stepped foot in the chapel. Back when she’d first found out she was pregnant, before she’d told the baby’s father, she’d fantasized about getting married at the chapel, that maybe they’d get lucky and have multiples even if it was “after the fact.” One baby would be blessing enough. Two, three, even four—Norah loved babies and had always wanted a houseful. But the guy who’d gotten her pregnant, in town on the rodeo circuit, had said, “Sorry, I didn’t sign up for that,” and left town before his next event. She’d never seen him again.

She stared at the chapel, so pretty in the moonlight, real life jabbing her in the heart again. Where is that punch bowl? she wondered.

“You always wanted to marry here? Then let’s get married,” Fabio said, scooping her up and carrying her into the chapel.

Her laughter floated on the summer evening breeze. “But we’re three sheets to the wind, as my daddy used to say.”

“That’s the only way I’d get hitched,” he said, slurring the words.

“Lead the way, cowboy.” She let her head drop back.

Annie Potterowski, the elderly chapel caretaker, local lore lecturer and wedding officiant, poked her head out of the back room. She stared at Norah for a moment, then her gaze moved up to Fabio’s handsome face. “Ah, Detective Barelli! Nice to see you again.”

“You know Fabio?” Norah asked, confused. Or was his first name really Detective?

“I ran into the chief when he was showing Detective Barelli around town,” Annie said. “The chief’s my second cousin on my mother’s side.”

Say that five times fast, Norah thought, her head beginning to spin.

And Annie knew her fantasy man. Her fantasy groom! Isn’t that something, Norah thought, her mind going in ten directions. Suddenly the faces of her triplets pushed into the forefront of her brain and she frowned. Her babies! She should be getting home. Except she felt so good in his arms, being carried like she was someone’s love, someone’s bride-to-be.

Annie’s husband, Abe, came out, his blue bow tie a bit crooked. He straightened it. “We’ve married sixteen couples tonight. One pair came as far as Texas to get hitched here.”

“We’re here to be the seventeenth,” Fabio said, his arm heavy around Norah’s.

“Aren’t you a saint!” Annie said, beaming at him. “Oh, Norah, I’m so happy for you.”

Saint Fabio, Norah thought and burst into laughter. “Want to know a secret?” Norah whispered into her impending husband’s ear as he set her on the red velvet carpet that created an aisle to the altar.

“Yes,” he said.

“My name isn’t really Angelina. It’s Norah. With an h.”

He smiled. “Mine’s not Fabio. It’s Reed. Two e’s.” He staggered a bit.

The man was as tipsy as she was.

“I never thought I’d marry a secret service agent,” she said as they headed down the aisle to the “Wedding March.”

“And we could use all your frequent flyer miles for our honeymoon,” Reed added, and they burst into laughter.

“Sign here, folks,” Annie said as they stood at the altar. The woman pointed to the marriage license. Norah signed, then Reed, and Annie folded it up and put it in an addressed, stamped envelope.

I’m getting married! Norah thought, gazing into Reed’s dark eyes as he stood across from her, holding her hands. She glanced down at herself, confused by her shorts and blue-and-white T-shirt. Where was her strapless, lace, princess gown with the beading and sweetheart neckline she’d fantasized about from watching Say Yes to the Dress? And should she be getting married in her beat-up slip-on sneakers? They were hardly white anymore.

But there was no time to change. Nope. Annie was already asking Reed to repeat his vows and she wanted to pay attention.

“Do you, Reed Barelli, take this woman, Norah Ingalls, to be your lawfully wedded wife, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”

“I most certainly do,” he said, then hooted in laughter.

Norah cracked up, too. Reed had the most marvelous laugh.

Annie turned to Norah. She repeated her vows. Yes, God, yes, she took this man to be her lawfully wedded husband.

“By the power vested in me by the State of Wyoming, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss your bride.”

Reed stared at Norah for a moment, then put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her, so tenderly, yet passionately, that for a second, Norah’s mind cleared completely and all she felt was his love. Her new husband of five seconds, whom she’d known for about two hours, truly loved her!

Warmth flooded her, and when rice, which she realized Abe was throwing, rained down on them, she giggled, drunk as a skunk.

* * *

Reed Barelli registered his headache before he opened his eyes, the morning sun shining through the sheer white curtains at the window. Were those embroidered flowers? he wondered as he rubbed his aching temples. Reed had bought a bunch of stuff for his new house yesterday afternoon—everything from down pillows to coffee mugs to a coffee maker itself, but he couldn’t remember those frilly curtains. They weren’t something he’d buy for his place.

He fully opened his eyes, his gaze landing on a stack of books on the bedside table. A mystery. A travel guide to Wyoming. And Your Baby’s First Year.

Your Baby’s First Year? Huh?

Wait a minute. He bolted up. Where the hell was he? This wasn’t the house he’d rented.

He heard a soft sigh come from beside him and turned to the left, eyes widening.

Holy hell. There was a woman sleeping in his bed.

More like he was in her bed, from the looks of the place. He moved her long reddish-brown hair out of her face and closed his eyes. Oh Lord. Oh no. It was her—Angelina slash Norah. Last night he’d given in to her game of fantasy, glad for a night to eradicate his years as a Cheyenne cop.

He blinked twice to clear his head. He wasn’t a Cheyenne cop anymore. His last case had done him in and, after a three-week leave, he’d made up his mind and gotten himself a job as a detective in Wedlock Creek, the idyllic town where he’d spent several summers as a kid with his maternal grandmother. A town where it seemed nothing could go wrong. A town that hadn’t seen a murder in over seventy years. Hadn’t Norah mentioned that last night?

Norah. Last night.

He lifted his hand to scrub over his face and that was when he saw it—the gold ring on his left hand. Ring finger. A ring that hadn’t been there before he’d gone to the carnival.

What the...?

Slowly, bits and pieces of the evening came back to him. The festival. A punch bowl he’d commandeered into the clearing under a big tree so he and Norah could have the rest of it all to themselves. A clearly heavily spiked punch bowl. A hundred-dollar bill in the till, not to mention at least sixty in cash. Norah, taking his hand and leading him to the chapel.