“I know he loves me,” Shannon says as Marie looks at her with so much love peeking out from raw, makeup-less eyes that it’s like watching a mother look at her newborn for the first time. “It’s just...” She flings herself at Marie and the two sob, each hitched breath like a tug that pulls Shannon further away into her new life.
Just then, a little man who looks like a troll carrying a hair-covered electric drill walks into the room and claps his hands three times.
“Flowers for the bridal party!”
Ah. It’s Jordan. And he’s carrying Muffin, who now has fuzz all over her.
Marie drops Shannon and practically wins the Olympic 100-meter sprint trying to hug Jordan, whose face lights up as he scans the room over her shoulder.
Until he sees me.
Is he actually baring his fangs at me? The man has unusually large incisors.
“Marie,” he croons. “Let’s make this wedding even more beautiful with my creations.” He takes over, offering the bridal bouquet and the reception bouquet, our pinned corsages and explaining in tremendous detail how the groom and his men will be attired in various flowers native to Scotland, like primrose and bluebell, combined with white roses and a touch of red, all color-coordinated to match the tartan.
While on paper (and Pinterest) it seemed an awful, gaudy mess to me, in person it works. Adding real, live people to the plan makes a huge difference.
Like pretty much everything.
“One hour to showtime!” Marie squeals, sending seamstresses and photographers into frantic activity as we finish dressing, primping, painting and all the accompanying rituals that come with getting wedding-perfect.
As promised, the seamstress fixed the back of my dress so that as long as I keep the corset fairly loose, and the strings tied in a simple slip knot, the Velcro holds the back of the strapless dress in place. We’re all showing shoulders, with a McCormick tartan sash draped over one, and the dresses touch the ground in spite of our high heels.
Between tartan underwear (don’t ask), tartan sashes, tartan ribbons in our hair and flowers, and tartan fingernails, we do, indeed, look like the Loch Ness Monster ate a bunch of highlanders and vomited. Hamish is right.
Shannon is also exquisite, and she and Declan will be smashing together.
Speaking of the groom, I can’t stop looking across the courtyard at the closed curtains on the men’s side.
No Andrew.
Is he really going to stand in the shadows, letting fear keep him from being at the front lines?
“How’s the crowd?” Amy asks, peering over my shoulder.
“Looks like about half of them are here already, getting seats.”
“It’s supposed to be a mild day for July in Boston.”
“Which means only one of the four of us will faint in these dresses,” I groan. I’m wearing about thirty pounds of clothing, from slips to petticoats to thick tartan wool, with sashes and red silk and various cotton blends all swirling around me. I am so weighted down I have to take great care walking in my high heeled shoes, waiting for the swish of my skirts, laden with so much cloth, to catch up to my center of gravity before proceeding.
This forces me to walk like I am in a wedding processional.
Perfect.
“Amanda! Oh, Amanda! You’re so beautiful!” Mom’s voice makes me turn around, the drag of my delayed motion nearly tipping me over as she gives me a big hug. Her hugs comes with an extra side of groping, as Spritzy licks the underside of my boob. I elbow him out of the way, his purse swaying slightly. He’s tightly zippered into a big bag that has thick beige leather handles.
“So do you!” Mom clearly made an effort this morning, in spite of significant pain. All that drinking triggered a fibromyalgia flare, and I can see in her face how fatigued she is. But the beige dress she’s wearing cuts nicely against the lines of her body, and she’s done her hair in a French knot. She shifts and puts Spritzy on her other arm, wincing slightly. If you didn’t know my mother, you wouldn’t realize she’s having a tough morning.
“Are those grandma’s pearls?” I ask.
She beams. “Yes. Remember?”
“I haven’t seen you wear those since Aunt Jody’s wedding when I was in middle school.”
She fiddles with the back of the earring clasp. “That’s probably the last time I wore them!”
Jason and James come around a corner, both outfitted to the nines in their fine Scottish dress, swords dangling from their hips.
Mom lets out a low whistle.
Jason blushes.
James doesn’t.
“Pam! Nice to see you! Don’t you look stunning,” James says as he walks over to my mother and gives her a kiss on both cheeks.
The entire scene moves like someone has pushed a slow-motion button in the hallway.
James is kissing my mother.
And is he touching her hip? With his palm? Is he...
“James,” Mom says, her voice like warm butter. “So good to see you again.”
“Have any good statistics for me to use to improve my life?” he asks with a wink. “How about some good wedding stats?”
Mom blushes, and looks up, as if retrieving them from her mind. “Married men live longer than single men. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Is that true for women, too?”
Mom smiles and nods.
“Then I’m glad to hear my son and new daughter-in-law are giving themselves more time together by spending nearly seven figures of my money on this beast of a day!”
Jason, who is drinking a cup of coffee from the catering service, sprays it all over the trash can he’s standing next to.