by L. E. Rico
So I wait.
We smile at each other coolly until, at last, she feels compelled to speak.
“I’m sorry, Hennessy, but you’re just going to have to trust me on this. If you’re not able to choose from the samples I’ve provided you, then I’ll make the decision on your behalf.”
Before I can object, she’s moving on to her next agenda item.
“Now then, about the music…I’ve secured the Los Angeles String Quartet for the ceremony, and they’ll perform the Pachelbel Cannon for your processional and the Wedding March from A Midsummer Night’s Dream as you come back up the aisle after the ceremony. I’ve asked them to choose some suitable music for the interludes during communion and whatever other…activities…are required during a Catholic service.”
I clear my throat and do my best to sound pleasant.
“Oh, that all sounds lovely, Jacintha! I wonder when we’ll be able to work in that Ave Maria that I requested?”
Her left eyebrow quirks up even as her expression remains exactly the same.
“I believe we resolved that last time we spoke. I’m sorry, Hennessy, but I don’t have much time today, so I’m afraid rehashing previous decisions is not going to be possible right now. Moving on to the swans…”
I’m not done with Ave Maria, but I know we squared the swans already.
“Right,” I say, “those are canceled, yes?”
She frowns. “No.”
“But Bryan told me he was going to speak with you…”
“And he did. I convinced him that the swans were an essential part of my vision for this wedding.”
“I see…” I say, fighting hard not to bite her head off. I have to think of Bryan and how happy all of this will make him.
“Right then. So swans arriving two days ahead of time… Oh! I think you’ll like this—your dress is just about ready to ship. Katarina is putting the final touches on it, and it will go out in about a week.”
“Oh, that is good news,” I say, feeling my edginess soften a little. “Did you get the pictures of the veils that I sent you? I think any of them would be beautiful with the gown.”
Jacintha purses her lips.
“Again, Hennessy, I’m certain we settled this earlier. As I have pointed out to you before, veils are very passé. I think perhaps a tiara is more appropriate.”
“Oh, but a veil looks so beautiful when the bride is coming down the aisle, Jacintha,” I point out diplomatically. “I’ve been watching women get married in that church my whole life, and I’ve always dreamed about having a long veil trailing behind me as I make that trip myself.”
I’m hoping she’ll concede on emotional grounds.
“Hmph. You’re just bound and determined that this wedding not be considered for Weddings of a Lifetime, aren’t you?” She sounds more than irritated; she sounds accusatory.
“You mean the magazine? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Hennessy, I think you’ll find that if you just sit back and let me do my job, you’ll have a wedding that will be so chic, so stunning and elegant, that it gets noticed around the world.”
What?
“My wedding?”
“Your wedding, Hennessy. I’m due for a spread in the magazine, and it could very well be your wedding that gets me there, if you stop questioning my every suggestion.”
Oh, this really is too much. This chick wants to get her face in some fancy-pants wedding magazine and she wants to do it with our wedding? On our dime? I don’t think so.
“Jacintha, I have to say that your publicity is none of my concern…”
I stop when I see her civil façade crack. Her eyes narrow, her brows turn down into a harsh V, her mouth tightens, and her nostrils flare.
Holy crap. I think I just woke the sleeping dragon.
“I made a lot of sacrifices to take on this job. If it weren’t for my longstanding relationship with Bryan, I would never have agreed to do something so…homespun. I specialize in elegant, high-end affairs. The kind that are attended by the likes of the Clooneys, Ryan Gosling and Eva Mendez, and President and Mrs. Obama. So, you see, taking on your little event was a personal favor to Bryan for helping me with a real estate transaction.”
I don’t know what to say to her. Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly what I’d like to say to her, but I’m fairly certain she’d hang up on me and quit if I said it. I’m also fairly certain I’d end up saying the rosary a hundred times after confessing it to Father Romance. The truth is, with less than a month to go, this wedding won’t happen without Jacintha Rowling. So I keep my very uncharitable thoughts to myself.
“Now, where were we?” she asks, all pleasantries again. “Ah, yes, your maid-of-honor dress. I’ve seen the pictures, and it’s looking lovely. The deep chocolate color will be flattering with your sister’s red hair, I believe.”
Wait just a minute…
“I’m sorry, did you say…chocolate? As in brown? I thought we agreed on a burgundy? That’s really the only color that suits all three of my sisters.”
“That’s the other thing,” she says, cutting my question off at the knees, “I’ve decided you’ll need to find another role for the two younger sisters. Bryan only has the one attendant, his best man. It wouldn’t be symmetrical if you were to have three attendants to his one.”
“You’ve decided?” I grit, feeling my face start to color.
Jacintha looks at the dainty diamond watch on her wrist. “Well, that’s me then. I’ve got to run to my next appointment. I’d planned to see you over the weekend, but Bryan told me you have some…Catholic…thing to attend to. So I’ve made arrangements to come see you next Wednesday. I’ll be in town for one night, and I expect to visit the church, the reception venue, and any locations you might want to take pictures. Once I sign off on those, I’ll need to see your trousseau, so please have that ready to model for me.”
“My what?”
For one brief moment, she looks at me as if I’m the dimmest person on earth. Then she offers up her most condescending smile to date.
“True-sew, Hennessy. It’s French. Look it up. Au revoir!”
And then she’s gone, with only my image remaining on the screen. The anger is gone with her, the lost, confused expression on my face serving as proof that I’m exactly the bumbling country mouse she believes me to be.
I close the lid of the laptop, put my head in my hands, and start to cry, wishing for about the thousandth time that my mother were here to help me navigate these shark-infested waters. But she’s gone now, and this listing ship is starting to feel a whole lot like the Titanic.
Chapter Six
Bryan
The puppet is big—like, big big—and it’s sitting on Father Buddy’s knee. I’m incredibly impressed by him; he’s proven to be quite an excellent ventriloquist. At this moment, he’s manipulating a plush man-doll with a shock of dark hair and dark, bushy eyebrows. The look is completed by a pointy, sinister-looking goatee and a long mustache meant for twirling, a la villain-standing-over-the-damsel-tied-to-the-train-tracks. In fact, that’s exactly what this guy is supposed to be…a villain. The villain. The worst kind of villain…one who can tear asunder what God hath joined together, according to Father Buddy. And what is this dastardly devil’s name?
Nathan Temptation.
I’m stunned to see that, while I have to chomp the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing, the other three couples are riveted by the priest’s performance. Even Hennessy looks more intrigued than alarmed…or even amused.
Okay…
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.
“Of course, not all threats are as evident or dastardly as our Nathan Temptation…” Father Buddy informs us as he sets Nathan aside. “Sometimes, the biggest danger to your relationship comes cloaked in the appearance of an innocent. A sweet, helpful soul. Perhaps a secretary, or a student, or a neighbor.”
The priest reaches behind him and produces another puppet,
this one a female with long blond curls made of yarn and enough lipstick to make a streetwalker wince.
I chuckle a little and absently take a chug from the water bottle I’m holding.
“Ladies and gentleman—soon to be husbands and wives,” Father Buddy says, ramping up the drama. “May I present to you, Miss Holly Homewrecker.”
My ill-conceived, poorly timed drink proves to be something much more alarming. I can’t even identify the garbled, gurgling noise that emits from my chest and throat as I gasp, snort, choke—and spit—in quick succession. A crystal-clear curtain of droplets sprays forth from my nose and mouth, raining down across Peg and Jim—the couple in front of us—like a sun shower in July.
Jim jumps up and rounds on me as he starts to bellow.
“What the ffff—udge!” he says, somehow managing to catch his f-bomb mid-stream and turn it into something that’s rated P for priest.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I gasp as I stand up, already holding out my palms in a gesture of apology. “I…it…uh…the water went down the wrong pipe…”
When I look down to the chair beside mine, Hennessy’s eyes are huge and stormy, her jaw clenched tight, and the knuckles of her fisted hands turning white.
“Ah, no worries there, Bryan,” the priest calls out to me. “I’ve seen it happen dozens of times before…”
I’ll bet he has.
“Thank you, Father.” I nod miserably and watch as Jim and Peg dab at themselves with the paper towels that the ancient Sister Ursula has just brought in.
I manage to sit through the remaining half-hour of this little presentation without losing my cool again—mainly by sheer force of will and biting the inside of my mouth until I taste the metallic tang of blood. I take advantage of a “potty break” to step outside and spend a little quality time with my hip flask. My dear old friend Johnny Walker Black—which also happens to be the full name of my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, Walker—goes down smooth as always, immediately helping to soothe my frazzled post-puppet nerves.
“Hey, don’t let ‘em see you with that or you’ll get your knuckles rapped!” comes a deep voice behind me. I turn around to find one of my male counterparts grinning at me. He’s a tall, broad black man—probably in his late thirties. I shuffle my mind for his name. Clarence? Clark? Clancy!
“Hey, Clancy, you want a little liquid courage? I hear we’re going to talk about ‘marital relations’ in the next session.” I smirk back at him, offering up my version of a silver chalice.
“Thank you, Bryan. Don’t mind if I do,” he says quietly, stepping in closer so no one will see him. I like this guy already.
“I suppose we’ll be roommates tonight,” I say, nodding toward one of the rustic cabins a few hundred feet from where we’re standing.
“I suppose so. A friend warned me they’re a little…stark. Facilities outside, if you know what I mean.”
“What? Are you kidding me? Like an outhouse?”
“Exactly like an outhouse.”
“Oh, crap. Hennessy’s not going to like that…”
“No, no, no, my man. The ladies get to stay inside the lodge. They get their very own wing. The Virgin Vault.”
I snort. “You’re making that crap up.”
“I crap you not, Bryan. And before you go thinking you’re going to slip in there and meet your honey for a late night ren-dez-vous, think again. Sister Ursula sleeps in there with them…‘to keep their reputations intact.’ Or so they told my fiancée, Joy, when she called to find out about accommodations.”
I’m not sure what expression my face is telegraphing but, whatever it is, it makes Clancy throw back his head in an easy, rumbling bass laugh.
“Welcome to Camp Commitment, Man!” he says, slapping my shoulder.
Even as I groan and shake my head, I catch a glimpse of Hennessy through the window. She’s talking with another couple, her arms and hands moving animatedly as she describes something. Her long, dirty blond hair is tied back into a braid that hangs down her back, and she’s wearing a pair of jeans and sweater that hug her in all the right places.
She’s the reason I’m doing this. I’ll put up with puppets and batty clergyman and any other test the good Lord cares to throw my way, so long as it means I get to spend the rest of my life worshipping this woman.
…
The second time it happens, I’m stumbling around outside in the dark, searching for the al fresco facilities. It’s two-thirty in the morning, and I’m kicking myself for downing three beers from Clancy’s secret stash. I might have been able to avoid the call of nature had I not imbibed. But at least there’s no snow on the ground. With flashlight in hand, I find my way to the incredibly cold, incredibly creepy bathroom and shower cabin, where I make quick work of my business and step out into the darkness again, ready to bolt for the relative warmth of my lower bunk and scratchy woolen blanket.
I’m about five paces out the door when I hear the crack of branches nearby. I stop where I am and listen carefully. But there’s nothing. I start to move again and only progress ten more steps when the noise comes again, this time louder…and closer.
Oh, crap. Am I about to be mauled by a bear? What are you supposed to do if a bear is attacking you? My mind runs through its catalog of useless knowledge, looking for anything to grasp onto.
Punch it in the nose. No—that’s a shark attack.
Stop, drop, and roll. Uh-uh. You do that if you’re on fire.
Stand perfectly still and hum soothing music?
I’m weighing the pros and cons of fight versus flight when I hear the noise again closer. It occurs to me in one sweat-inducing moment that the threat might just be human.
“Hello?” I call out, trying to sound manly and brave even as bloody images from all those Friday the 13th movies keep flashing through my head. Is this Jason Voorhees come back from the Great Beyond, looking for a little rough justice with his hockey mask and a butcher knife?
“Oh, goodness me! You startled me! Is that you, Bryan?”
Ah, not Jason then. Just Father Nutty. I mean Buddy.
“Yes, Father. Are you all right? What are you doing out here alone so late?” I ask, trying to see him through the thicket of trees between us. I’m wondering if the old man has wandered off and lost his way back to the lodge.
“Just a moment, Bryan…”
I hear more crunching and, if I’m not mistaken, a whisper of profanity. I’ve convinced myself that I am mistaken until Father Buddy manages to extricate himself from the brush. Like me, he’s also wearing a parka and pajamas. Unlike me, he’s smoking a cigarette. He gives me a sheepish smile when we’re finally face to face.
“No matter how hard I try, I just can’t kick the vile things. Would you like one?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you, Father.”
I feel as if I’ve just stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone as I stand out here with a priest in flannel pajamas, offering me a smoke in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night.
“I—uh, happened to notice you and Clancy partaking of a little something from your flask earlier. I don’t suppose you’d have it with you now, would you, son? A shot of something warm would surely go down nice with this Marlboro.”
“Uh, yeah, sure, Father…” I pull the hip flask out of my jacket pocket and pass it over to him.
Father Buddy takes a long pull and licks his lips when he’s done. Then he takes an equally long drag on his cigarette and sighs contentedly.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! That just hits the spot,” he murmurs, then crosses himself and looks up toward heaven. “Forgive me, Father, I’ll be stronger tomorrow.”
He passes the flask back, and I have a sip, myself, seeing as how I can’t feel my toes anymore.
“So, Bryan, are you enjoying the Marriage Encounter? Are you getting anything out of it?”
I’m taken aback by the question.
“Umm, yes, I suppose so…”
“Good, good. Because tomor
row’s a big day.”
“Is it?” I ask, wondering how he could possibly top today’s game of “Wheel of Wedding Woes.”
He nods as he blows out a perfect smoke ring.
“Oh, yes. Tomorrow, we talk procreation.”
“Pro…procreation?” I echo, not sure why I’m surprised by this. Of course a marriage encounter weekend would include discussion of—
“Bryan?”
“Hmm?”
Father Buddy is looking at me strangely. He drops his cigarette to the ground and extinguishes it with a twist of his slippered foot before taking a few steps closer to me.
“Son, you’re looking a little…green. And you’re sweating…”
“Huh?” I can barely hear him over the rushing sound in my ears.
No. No, no, no. This. Is not. Happening. But it is. I reach out and grab the trunk of a tree, hoping it will steady me and stop the world from spinning. It doesn’t.
“Okay, okay, Bryan. Just put an arm around me… Yes, just like that.” I feel him supporting my weight as I slide down along the bark slowly and come to halt at the base of the tree.
The priest is squatting down in front of me now. He pulls a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabs at my forehead. I feel my chest tighten. It makes my every inhalation so shallow that I’m suddenly wondering if I’ll suffocate right here, in the woods. Well, at least the stupid bear won’t get me…
“Bryan, son, focus. Open your eyes and look at me.”
He speaks with such authority that I feel compelled to do exactly as he says. It takes several seconds, but I’m finally able to open my eyes and lock them onto his pale blue gaze.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Now, we’re going to breathe in together, slowly. Ready? Okay, breathe in…” I mimic his actions and manage to get a bit of oxygen into my body. “And out.” His breath comes blowing out in a long, firm stream of air that smells of cigarettes and booze.