“Angus!” she hollered, and held up her hand.
But just then a dark-haired man dressed in street clothing muscled his way from the other direction and reached the duelers. “Drop the gun, now!” he bellowed, and Glory wondered who he was to have a voice like that.
Then she spotted his gun. What was he doing? What the heck was she doing, thinking a pirate wedding was a good idea?
“I said, drop the gun!” the man roared.
Angus lowered the pistol to his side, but didn’t let go. “This isn’t a gun,” he said, “it’s an eighteenth-century flintlock blunderbuss.”
“I don’t care if it’s Howdy freaking Doody dressed in a ball gown, put the thing on the ground now!”
The guests loved it.
Now what was she supposed to do? The modern black revolver in the stranger’s hand also looked real. It had to be a fake; both of them were fake, right? They only seemed real because these people had practiced the script so well and they’d left out the gun part. Her mind spun. Find Juniper. Make sure the servers were out of the way. Let Cadillac out and cue him to herd the guests if it came to that. Her head began to pound with the unmistakable drumming of a migraine on its way. “Excuse me,” she said to every person she bumped into. “Please, may I get by?”
In the excitement guests pushed back and Glory ended up next to the musicians. “Was this planned?” she asked the guy in the kilt.
“Dunno. I’m in charge of tunes, not fighting. Where’d you find that guy?”
“I thought he was a guest.”
“Lady, I know every person here. I don’t know him.” The Scotsman cupped his hands and shouted, “Angus, back away from that dude! He’s packing!”
Over the noise of the guests Angus either couldn’t hear or didn’t understand, so as the person hired to run this wedding successfully start to finish, Glory plowed through the crowd, not stopping until she poked her finger into the chest of the uninvited armed guest and in Angus’s as well. “Both of you put the guns away! This is a wedding, not a showdown at the O.K. Corral.”
“Mine’s fake!” Angus said. “Honest, I bought it on militaryheritage.com for forty-eight dollars. Look. The barrel isn’t even drilled out.”
The uninvited guest turned his face to her. His black hair was cut sharply above the ears, close to his skull, almost military-style. She couldn’t quite place his ethnicity. Latino? American Indian? Had he been wearing boots and a tricorn hat, he could have passed as a Moorish corsair, but not in a leather jacket and Levi’s and holding what she was pretty sure was a nine-millimeter pistol. “Thank God for that,” Glory said.
“A sword fight in a wedding?” the man said.
“Yes,” Glory said. “The fighting is pretend. We’re in the middle of a wedding. A pirate wedding.”
“Seriously?” The man slid the gun back into the leather holster under his jacket and stepped aside. The pirates cheered as the duel began again.
“I’m going to shoot blanks now,” Angus said. “Just so you know, there are no real bullets, only black powder caps, okay? You might see some sparks, but that’s all.”
“Sorry about that,” the man said. “Ingrained reaction. I used to be a cop.”
“So your gun has actual bullets in it?” Glory asked, pulling him away from the dueling pirates.
“That’s usually the point of carrying one.” The pirates clashed by them. “From over there it looked to me like the real deal.”
As soon as he pointed to the oak, Glory realized he’d been taking pictures of the tree without clearing permission from her ahead of time. Having the tree on private property meant she could call the hours people came to see it. Signs posted a hundred yards from the tree in every direction stated so in Spanish, German, Japanese, and Vietnamese. “You’re supposed to make an appointment for a reason.”
“I can see that now.” He turned quickly away.
“Are you crying?” she said, but when he looked at her again, he was laughing.
“Sorry,” he said. “A wedding inspired by a pirate movie. Who’s to blame? Johnny Depp or Walt Disney?”
Glory reached for his camera. “May I use this? It’s an emergency.”
He pulled it back by the strap. “This is a very expensive camera.”
“Mine’s got a dead battery and you kind of owe me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“I’m Glory Solomon. I live here and my camera died. Sufficient? Will you at least take pictures of things until I get my Nikon?”
“I photographed crime scenes. I don’t do people.”
Glory held out her hands. “How hard can it be? Just try not to make anyone look dead. I’ll pay you whatever you think is fair. My future is riding on this wedding.”
“If they come out terrible, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“For crying out loud, just shoot! Pictures!”
He lifted his camera and, hallelujah, began snapping.
She raced into the house for the Nikon. While she fumbled loading obsolete film into a relic, she wondered why this man would be wandering around her little ranch on a national holiday instead of being at home drinking beer and watching some sports event with his kids and family.
By the time she returned, the fight was winding down. Angus was red-faced and winded. The bride pulled her dagger, pointed it at her kidnapper’s rear end, and gave him a poke. “Weigh anchor, you ruffian! Unhand me.”
“I’ll have ye know I’m a picaroon, first-class!”
“And I be the direct descendant of Gracie O’Malley!”
The servers were now cheering on the bad guy, but in the middle of them, Glory saw Juniper standing there quietly, hands at her sides, expressionless. Poor kid. Glory bet she had never envisioned her Thanksgiving holiday to feature guns and swordplay. Glory would call Caroline as soon as the wedding was over; she needed to make sure Caroline was really finding another placement for the girl.
The rival pirate plucked a white handkerchief from his pocket. Angus speared it with his sword. “She’s mine again, as she always were,” he announced, and the guests began filing back into the chapel for the remainder of the ceremony.
Vows: thirty minutes late, check.
Glory followed the cop photographer into the chapel. When the bride and groom were back in place at the altar, he resumed taking pictures. On the other side of the chapel Glory took her own pictures, keeping in mind she had thirty-six shots, not the unlimited number she would have had on a digital.
“Vows, please,” the minister said.
Angus unrolled a lengthy parchment and the guests groaned. “What?” he said. “I learned ta read special for this moment.” He cleared his throat. “I, Captain General Angus McMahan, aka Mad Dog, take thee, my fine wench with the stout right hook, as me heart, me soul, and sole reason for plunderin’. I promises to love ye and honor ye; to make ye laugh when yer feelin’ out of sorts, love thee through scurvy and fire, in wealth or poverty, and when I speak of treasure, as I am wont to do, everyone within the sound of me voice will know that what I am really speaking about is thee. All of this will I undertake until there are no horizons left to chase and the rum is gone.”
Glory looked at Mrs. Brown, who held a tissue to her eyes. The ex-cop or whatever he was quietly made his way to the front of the chapel and took close-ups.
“Oh, Mad Dog,” Karen began, reading from her own scroll. “Me salty jack with a crooked smile that matcheth yer business dealings … ”
In a week Karen would be back at her paralegal job and Angus would return to managing the college bookstore. Glory would have put their check to good use—the mortgage, another payment to the hospital, and having the vet out to see to the goats and horses, who were due for shots. She’d put $1,000 into her savings account and pray that her truck could go a few more months without new tires. There were always sales in January.
The best man untied the white satin ribbons from the pillow and handed the candy rings to the kids. Angus and Karen ex
changed wedding bands. Using the ribbon from the pillow, the minister bound the groom’s left hand to the bride’s right hand. “Whether plundered or purchased retail, a ring is a circle that never ends. Whom God hath joined this day, with the help of Poseidon and many questionable individuals as witnesses, let no one break apart. Now, we have need of a besom, please.”
The best man handed the minister an elegant oak branch, the twig end of which was tied with colored satin ribbons. The maid of honor and the best man each held an end down low to the floor. “If you please,” the minister said, and Angus and Karen counted to three and timed the leap over the broom perfectly. The moment they landed on the other side, the Topgallant Troubadours switched on the amps and Glory’s headache pounded.
At the reception tables, Gary ladled out the grog, and Glory searched the crowd for Juniper. “Why’s the drink line so crazy-long, Gary? The pirates are getting agitated.”
“Mrs. Solomon, I’m the only server over twenty-one.”
How could she have forgotten that? “Hang in there. Let me take a few pictures, and then I’ll help you.”
She lifted her camera and shot the roasted turkey legs held aloft by the bride and groom before she picked up a second ladle. If she could reduce the line to half, then she could step away from the table to take more pictures. Apparently the ex-cop saw her dilemma because he came up to Glory and uttered the loveliest words she’d ever heard: “If you send me home with a plate of leftovers, I’ll take the reception pictures.”
“Bless you,” she said, filling flagons. “I’ll send you home with a week’s worth of food.”
“Deal.”
Before he walked away, Glory called out, “Wait. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Joseph.”
“Thank you, Joseph.” He nodded. She resumed ladling out the mead. As soon as everyone had a glass, she signaled the best man that it was time for the toast.
“Arrgh-hem,” the best man said three times before people quieted down. “Marriage between pirates can be a tricky thing. Some days you’ll feel like lootin’, some days you’ll feel like plunderin’, but never let a day go by ya don’t go to sea and polish your sword!”
A groan traveled through the guests.
“All right, all right,” the best man said. “Married pirates, be happy and rob only the rich! May yer sails never falter and may the seas be rocky enough t’keep things interestin’. Now who’s up fer gettin’ blisterin’ drunk and playing full-contact Scrabble?”
Apparently everyone was, considering the response was much hollering and even louder music. Glory wondered if she could sneak a slice of turkey to convince her headache to retreat into its corner.
Juniper walked by, carrying a buffet tray of potatoes to replace the empty one. Under the pins and barbells, she had a pretty face. Someday she’d take the metal out and wonder what she’d been thinking. Glory watched her serve, taking care not to spill anything even though the pirates weren’t exactly the neatest diners. Soon everyone had a full plate and a flagon. The Sterno cans stayed lit and the hurricane lamps flickered. Joseph moved through the crowd taking pictures as if he did it every day. There was plenty of turkey and gravy. All during the meal the musicians continued playing, and Glory was on her way to fetch the cake when Gary called her back, panic in his voice. “Mrs. Solomon!”
“What?” she said. “They’re married, they’ve got food and drink, and pictures have been taken. We’re in the home stretch.”
“Except that we’re out of the tankards.”
“We can’t be. We had three full cases.”
“I think the pirates are stealing them. Seriously, they’re disappearing and people are asking for more.”
Glory sighed. What was she supposed to do? Frisk the guests? “I’ve got a few more in the house.” She nabbed Robynn as she walked by. “How’s the cake?”
“I’m on my way to get it.” She grinned. “The duel was crazy, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“How come you didn’t tell us about the gunman? That was kind of scary.”
Glory smiled, pretending it was part of the script. “Oh, just some last-minute silliness. How’s Juniper doing?”
Robynn looked back through the crowd. “All right. Kind of keeps to herself, doesn’t she?”
“I only met her a few hours ago. Tomorrow she goes to a foster home.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. I thought she was staying with you. Remember Christopher? I saw him downtown the other day. He said you were the greatest mom ever.”
Christopher, one of their recent foster sons, had been in high school the same time as Robynn. He was on his own now, attending college and working. “Thanks,” Glory said. “It’s easy when you have such a great kid.”
They stepped over the threshold into the kitchen. It felt like time travel, going from swords and scarves and buckets of medieval booze to kitchen timers and appliances. When Glory saw her cake, she fell in love with it all over again. A fondant pirate’s ship on a buttercream sea. Could anything be more beautiful?
After a week’s worth of trial and error, she saw the cake as a turning point in her life. Even if she never booked another wedding, she knew she could make one-of-a-kind cakes to sell. But if today succeeded, there would be other weddings, and that would be twice as good. A way for her to earn a real living. She’d shaped Rice Krispies Treats into a hull shape, then “dirty-iced” it with buttercream, followed by fondant, into which she had pressed hundreds of cuts to resemble planks. Using food coloring made especially for pastry, she painted the hull to look like wood grain. It rode high on waves of sculpted chocolate, crested with giant sugar crystals and luster dust. The wooden skewers for the masts were coated with chocolate, and the sails—oh, my gosh—the sails of fondant were rolled so thin you could almost see through them. The pirate figurines she found at the craft store were anchored by icing to the fo’c’sle, standing one behind the other. That was what marriage was really like, Glory thought, lovers standing one behind the other, facing into a gale-force wind.
Glory and Robynn carried the cake to the cleared buffet table and set it down. “Where did the cop photographer go?” Glory asked Juniper, who’d come over to see the cake. “Can you find him before they cut this?”
“He’s right behind you,” Juniper said. “Dude? Are you really a cop?”
“Formerly,” he said.
“So what do you do now?” she asked.
“This,” he said, and took Glory’s picture.
There was no time for Glory to tell him she didn’t appreciate that. She cleared space at the buffet table for the bride and groom, handed them the knife, and watched her baby be cut into pieces. After the couple had rather messily fed each other, Robynn stepped in to dish up the cake for the guests.
“Can I have a piece?” Juniper asked, hovering.
“If there are leftovers,” Glory whispered. “Stand here and help Robynn, okay?”
Besides the fake smile, Juniper was good at pouting. Glory’s headache perched over her left eye like a buzzard. Nearby she heard the faint whirring of Joseph’s camera. When he looked her way, she mouthed, “Thank you.”
A half hour later, the Topgallant Troubadours set down their instruments and stood together to sing another song a cappella. “Barrett’s Privateers” was the story of the last survivor recounting the battle that cost them the war. Glory thumbed away the tears in her eyes so the guests wouldn’t notice the thirty-eight-year-old widow with the migraine becoming sentimental over a Stan Rogers chantey. She smiled the way Juniper did, fake and polite, and thought, interesting, already she’s taught me something.
When the moment came to “scupper the grog,” the pirates were busy dancing to a Nirvana song. Glory watched Angus pour a pitcher of drink over his thwarted rival and dreamed of her bottle of Percocet, left over from the dentist. It numbed everything. She sometimes took it on those nights when she couldn’t stop crying. Puddles of sticky alcohol, smashed cake bits, and th
e odd turkey bone were on the flagstone, and instead of fretting about getting it clean, she thought, oh, I’ll hose it down tomorrow. The loser/rival accepted his scupper with dignity, squeezed out his long hair, set his tricorn hat back on his head, hugged Angus, and returned to dancing.
This was it. Every planned moment had been pulled off. When things had seemed on the verge of falling apart, Joseph the gun-toting photographer had come to her rescue. Now it was time for her surprise, a gift to the newlyweds. Juniper passed by with a tray of dirty dishes.
“Having fun?” Glory asked.
“Fifty-one percent of marriages end in divorce,” Juniper said.
Glory silently wished Caroline luck in finding a place for this one. “You might as well start enjoying yourself because when all this is over, there will be a great deal of cleaning up. Right now I need you to come help me with the butterflies, so let Pete bus those dishes.”
“There are going to be bugs? Do I have to touch them? Eww.”
“Seriously? I’ve never met a person who didn’t like a butterfly.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Juniper handed her tray off to Gary, who headed toward the kitchen.
Glory was momentarily speechless.
Inside the greenhouse the air was steamy and thick. In addition to the potted orchids Glory grew year-round, there were maidenhair ferns, crawling vines, and butterfly feeders, flat-sloped dishes suspended from the greenhouse beams. Each dish was filled with nectar and fruit past eating, giving the place a sweetish scent. The butterflies preferred orange slices. Proves they’re Californians, Dan once remarked.
“Oh, man,” Juniper said. “How can you stand it in here? Even my hair is sweating. Open a window.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The greenhouse is temperature-controlled for the butterflies.”
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