On the opposite bank, indistinct figures are gathering. Several cars have parked along the break in the conifers near our van, and in the pale light of approaching dawn, I make out two saddled horses and what appears to be a moose. To be fair, the moose might be a coincidence.
All of this, however, reminds me of something important.
“You know how at Dave and Amanda’s wedding, all that stage equipment fell on top of us?” I ask.
“Of course!” says Bulan.
Mandy shakes her head. “Was it wedding confetti?”
“It was not! And before that happened, I thought I saw something creepy in the hallway. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t a vampire or a rockabilly ghost. And remember I saw something tonight, beforeRobert showed up? That I thought was a plastic bag?” Mandy and Bulan make noises of agreement. “I think it’s followed us here. And it’s sabotaging us.”
“No!” says Bulan. “Not an evil plastic bag!”
“I think it’sbeensabotaging us,” I continue, hoping that I’ve communicated my gravitas appropriately. It’s hard to say. Though Mandy murmurs, “How terrible!” in spite of this pronouncement, she seems as pretty and cheerful as ever. Maybe that’s because of the white dahlia tucked behind her ear, stolen off the garland or plucked from the maws of Dexter.
Hmm. Actually, that gives me an idea. There isn’t much I can do if this wedding venue is being sabotaged, but maybe I can still help Fi feel—and look—bridal.
“Mandy, hand me that flower,” I demand. After a little janky work with spare floral tape and the barrette I’ve clipped to my pant loop, I have the start of a flower crown. “Bulan, why don’t you go to the ceremony site—Stonehengehasto stay intact, keep your eyes on it!—and wait for me. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Come with me, Mandy.”
Tugging a plaid tablecloth off a reception table, I slide into the middle of the rapidly escalating conflict between Hell-Mother and daughter with Mandy in tow.
“Hi, Fi!” I say brightly. “You’re gorgeous! Wow. All you need is your hairpiece!”
“What are you—” The Hell-Mother pauses, mid-storm, to glance at the offering in my palm. “That ‘hairpiece’ is hideous.”
“I love it,” says Fi.
Beneath us, Dexter rumbles in either agreement or indigestion. To my mild delight, he burps up three more dahlias.
“Want to make it a flowercrown?” I ask. “Seems like that would fit with the venue’s, uh… vibe.”
“You can’t argue with the earth, Mom,” says Fi. “Not your beloved earth.”
Apparently, nature is the Hell-Mother’s singular weakness. Capitalizing on this moment, I say, “Agreed, Fi! We better move fast anddo what Dexter wants. How about we use this tablecloth to dry off? Amazing. Now let’s come this way to get your hair finished and your meditation on. We can make sure you’re out of sight when the guests arrive. Bec, how about you stay here to greet the guests? Mandy, keep a lookout for the bridal party.”
“I’ll send them your way!” Mandy says. “Becuille, oh mytrees, your calf muscles are so BIG.”
With the Hell-Mother distracted by Mandy’s pixie-dusted ego-stroking, I rustle Fi to the safety of the ceremony site. As I get her situated on her meditation platform—aka pillow fort—I mentally run through a final, harried checklist. Bridal party, check. Bride and bride’s family, check. But bride’s future family and her fiancé, Asher? Nowhere in sight.
Oh no. This couldn’t be more sabotage—could it?
“I was really hoping to look beautiful today,” says Fi, her voice dejected.
My thought-spiral slams to a halt. Bending down, I look her in the eye.
“Youarebeautiful,” I tell Fi earnestly. “That dress clings to you where it’s wet, and it’s hugging your curves, like,wow. Your skin is so well-hydrated, it’s glistening. And your hair is taking on a dark, moody glow as it dries. You look incredible.”
“I wanted to look like—like I did during my makeup and hair trial.”
Of course she would. Wouldn’t anyone?
“Didn’t you come into my shop right after doing bridal portrait photos?” I ask, the memory returning to me. “The way I see it is, it’s up toyouto choose how you want to remember your dress. You can frame the photos you took while dressed up on Tuesday. As for this morning, I’ll ask the photographer to take lots of distant shots and silhouettes. That way, you’ll have lots of options.”
“Oh,” says Fi. “What about my makeup? I don’t look awful, do I?”
“Hmm. You’ve got a soulful doe-eye thing going. Here, let me…” Digging a tissue out of my pocket, I wipe the more-raccoony-than-soulful eyeliner away. “There. I think it looks fine. Besides, Asher loves you foryou. He’d marry you even if you wore your mom’s dead deer as a tutu.”
“Bet,” says Fi. “You know, Mom would love that.”
