The sound that emerged from those pipes could only be described as the mating call of a dying whale crossed with a car alarm. Several guests covered their ears, while others lookedaround frantically for the source of what they probably assumed was some kind of emergency alert system.
But Mrs. H was just getting warmed up.
She launched into what I think was supposed to be “Scotland the Brave,” though it sounded more like “Scotland the Slightly Confused and Possibly Wounded.”
That’s when Debbie decided she’d had enough of being a passive observer.
“Excuse me!” she announced, marching up to the microphone that had been set up for the speeches. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it, but her voice carried clearly over Mrs. H’s bagpipe assault. “I need to talk to everyone about dragon weddings!”
The bagpipes stopped mid-wheeze, the sound dying to a whimper as though a Scottish Ms. Pacman had just been eaten by Blinky.
“Debbie, Button, take a seat, okay?” Jeremiah tried putting the cork back in the bottle, but it was too late. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited.
“Dragon weddings?” Mateo asked weakly.
“Yes! When dragons get married, they breathe rainbow fire and everyone gets to ride unicorns to the party. Also, the cake is made of clouds and tastes like cotton candy, which is much better than regular cake because you can eat as much as you want and your tummy doesn’t hurt.”
She paused to survey her captive audience, clearly pleased to have everyone’s attention.
“I think your wedding needs more dragons,” she continued seriously. “And maybe some unicorns. Daddy says unicorns aren’t real, but I think they’re just really good at hiding . . . like ninjas, but with sparkles.”
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Mrs. H declared, setting down her bagpipes with obvious reluctance.
Debbie, reveling in the rapt attention of so many strangers, continued her impromptu reception hosting duties. She’d decided that the woodworking cake needed some modifications and had somehow managed to climb onto a chair to reach it.
“This saw is in the wrong place,” she announced, carefully moving the fondant miter saw from one end of the cake to the other. “And these tools aren’t organized properly. Daddy organizes his tools by size, not by what they do.”
“Debbie!” I called out, but she was already rearranging the tiny fondant hammers and chisels with the focus of a master craftsman.
“Wait, I want to see where she’s going with this,” Shane said, and I realized he was actually watching her modifications with interest.
The photographer was now openly weeping as he tried to capture anything resembling a traditional wedding photo, but every shot was being photo bombed by increasingly elaborate props, Mrs. H’s periodic bagpipe interludes, or Debbie’s ongoing cake reorganization project.
That’s when things really started to spiral.
A server, clearly overwhelmed by the chaos, approached Mrs. H with a clipboard and a desperate expression.
“Excuse me, are you the wedding planner? We need to know the timeline for the evening. When should we start clearing tables?”
Mrs. H drew herself up to her full four-foot-ten-inch frame and fixed the poor woman with a stare that could have melted steel.
“Wedding planner?” she repeated, her accent becoming more pronounced with indignation. “Lass, I am Moira Henderson, Keeper of the Sacred Haggis and Destroyer of Inappropriate Relationships. I plan battles, not weddings.”
“I . . . what?” the server stammered.
“Although,” Mrs. H continued, warming to her new role, “if you insist on treating me as wedding coordinator, I have some suggestions. First, we need more whiskey. Second, someone needs to teach that photographer how to capture the genuine spirit of Scottish celebration. And third”—she gestured dramatically at the fairy lights—“those lights are far too well behaved. They need more chaos. More . . . pizzazz!”
As if summoned by her words, Shane attempted to back away from the increasingly bizarre photo session and somehow managed to get tangled in the fairy lights Mrs. H had just criticized. The strand caught around his shoulders, and in trying to free himself, he managed to pull down an entire section of the carefully arranged decorations.
Lights cascaded down like glittering rain, and Shane stood in the middle of it all looking like the world’s most confused Christmas tree.
“Perfect!” Mrs. H declared. “That’s what I’m talking about! Embrace the chaos!”
But the chaos had barely begun.
Somewhere in the confusion, someone had placed the fondant miter saw from Debbie’s cake reorganization project on top of Omar’s head. He seemed rather smashed and completely unaware of his new accessory as he continued holding his modified sign and posing for pictures.
“Omar,” Mike called out, “you’ve got a little something . . .”
