A Coventry Wedding. Becky Cochrane
I just don’t eat carbs. Who’s telling the story of my flaws, you or me?”
“Point taken,” Sam said, and again she saw the quick smile. He really was cute. The gay ones always were.
“Anyway,” she said, sounding more exasperated than she felt, “it’s more than food. It’s an awful trait. I’ve started a zillion things in my life that I never finished.”
“A zillion seems to be your standard unit of measurement. I’m beginning to distrust it. Name five things you didn’t finish.”
“Piano lessons. Quit before my first recital. Brownies. Quit before I ever earned a single badge. Culinary school. Court reporting school. This conversation—it bores even me. What’s one of your worst traits?”
“That I don’t let people make me say bad things about myself. Do you think you’ve got attention deficit disorder?” He glanced over with surprise when she yelped.
“I hate that. Everyone I know is always wearing their little acronyms like they’re—they’re—Brownie badges that they earned. One night I was sitting with a group of my fiancé’s friends and they were all, ‘I’m ADD, I’m OCD, I’m ADHD, I have CFS, I’ve got SAD, well I’ve got PTSD….’ Isn’t anyone just normal anymore? It makes me crazy.”
“Maybe you’ve got PMS.”
She glared at him and said, “That’s another sad fact about me. I never come up with the punch line, just the setup.”
“You came up with Humor for Half-wits.”
“See? When you say it, it has a double meaning. You’re funnier.”
“Is this a competition? Like with the dog?”
“No. I’m not competitive. That’s another flaw. Are we finished cataloging them now?”
“No, because you—”
“Never finish anything.” She stared out the window at the barren landscape. “It isn’t like I’ve never driven through a desert before. Just not one that never ends. It’s such a wasteland.”
“It’s teeming with life,” Sam assured her.
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. That’s just what everybody says. It’s all dirt, rocks, and tumbleweeds to me.”
“Tell me about Coventry. I should know something about where I’m staying.”
“Won’t you be staying in Dallas? I assumed your husband—or rather, your fiancé—would pick you up once we got to Coventry.”
The problem with telling lies was keeping up with them.
“I figured I could stay there overnight until the truck was fixed, then I’d drive to Dallas.”
“I don’t think even my sister can get the parts to repair your truck that fast,” he said. “Also, there won’t be a vacancy anywhere near Coventry until after the Fourth of July.”
“That’s over a month from now!”
“Coventry’s tourist season is from the beginning of June until Independence Day. It’s because of the Godiva Festival.”
“Godiva has a manufacturing plant in Texas? I had no idea.”
Sam seemed puzzled and said, “A manufacturing—oh. You’re thinking of the chocolates. The Godiva Festival has nothing to do with candy, although I think both names came from Lady Godiva.”
“Who’s Lady Godiva?”
He glanced at her and said, “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I know Lady Madonna. Lady Diana. Lady Marmalade. I know the lady is a tramp. But not Lady Godiva.”
“Lady Godiva lived in England about a thousand years ago. That’s just under a zillion. She was married to a nobleman whose subjects were suffering under the steep taxes he made them pay. She took pity on them and asked her husband to lower their taxes. When he refused, saying the people didn’t deserve her help, she bet him that she could ride through the streets naked and no one would shame her by looking at her. If she was right, her husband had to do as she’d asked.”
“Did it work?”
“Legend has it that she rode through the town on horseback covered only by her long hair. When all the townspeople stayed inside so they wouldn’t see her, her husband gave in. There’s no proof that any of this happened, although Lady Godiva and her husband were real people. Another part of the story has it that one man—his name was Tom—looked at her as she rode by.”
“So he was the first peeping Tom?”
“Exactly.”
“What does an Englishwoman from the Middle Ages have to do with Coventry, Texas?”
“Lady Godiva was from the city of Coventry in England. Although our town’s founder wasn’t from there, he borrowed the name. During World War Two, we declared ourselves twin cities and sent relief supplies to Coventry, which was heavily bombed. Later, as a thank-you, someone from England sent us a replica of their Lady Godiva statue.”
“What happens during the Godiva Festival?”
“All year long, the Godiva Society raises money for worthy causes. They hand out checks and honor the fund-raisers in June. The town’s merchants and civic groups host medieval festivities throughout the month: music, dancing, jousting, feasts, craftspeople, artists. Even though most of that happens on the weekends, people stay in our inns and bed-and-breakfasts while they enjoy other things around Coventry.”
“Like what?”
“Hiking and riding horses and bikes in the national parks. There are several lakes where people swim, ski, fish, and boat. Since people can stay in other towns in the area, hosting a monthlong festival helps draw them to Coventry. We also try to appeal to the tourists who visit Dallas and Fort Worth.”
“The festival sounds a little like a Renaissance fair.”
“With a few Texas twists. For instance, the kids get to rescue a damsel in distress from a dragon that’s actually a very bored Texas longhorn. There’s the Godiva chili cook-off. I doubt fiery hot chili was a popular dish among the lords and ladies of the English nobility. We have a dog show, hot air balloon rides, all kinds of things. The last big event of the month is the crowning of the new Daughter of Godiva at the Medieval Ball. Traditionally, something always goes wrong during the festival. Half the fun is how stories of the mishaps get embellished during the winter whenever the townsfolk get together, until the next year when we start all over again.”
“Coventry must be small,” she said, trying to figure out what it would be like to live in a place where everyone knew everybody else. Long Beach, where she’d grown up, not only had over four hundred thousand people, but was part of the Los Angeles metropolitan area.
“Around twenty thousand residents if you include Old and New Coventry.”
She smiled; the entire town was half the size of Silver Lake, her section of L.A.
“What’s the difference between the two?”
“Old Coventry is the original town. It’s mostly residential with a few office buildings and small businesses. New Coventry has chain stores, newer housing developments, and apartment complexes. A lot of people like living close to a small town and commuting to work in Fort Worth or Dallas. Anyway, because of the festival, our lodging is pretty much booked until the second week of July. But I’m sure your fiancé will want you with him, even if your pickup stays in Coventry at Revere Auto.”
She made a noncommittal sound, trying to figure out her next move. Not being able to stay in Coventry was a problem only because she had no way to go anywhere else until Grandpa’s truck was repaired.
“Of course, I did promise to