I had only that afternoon and the following day to put the wedding back together. I got into the car and raced over to Marcello’s, wondering how I was going to tell Bella that the wedding gown she’d thought she fixed needed to be fixed again. When I got there and she brought out the gown and hung it on a rod by the counter, I broke out in a cold sweat.
“This was a very big job,” she said. “But it came out perfect. Take a look.”
I did. And I cringed, because it was perfect. Except, of course, the waist was two inches too small. This was the moment of truth. I had no choice but to come clean.
There was an awkward moment of silence after I told her what I’d done. She looked at me like I was a criminal, which I guess to her I was, having vandalized a Valentino. “You re-pinned this so it wouldn’t fit?”
I gave a sheepish nod. “But we made up, and now I want to fix everything. I want her to walk down the aisle in this dress. You’ve got to help me. Please?”
“But the wedding is Saturday, and it’s already Thursday. That would only give me tonight and tomorrow. This isn’t like doing a hem or shortening sleeves. This is hours and hours of work.”
I knew that. I couldn’t imagine how long it would take, how many stitches.
Bella looked at the gown and shook her head. “I don’t see any way I can do it. We’re backed up already. And we’re closed next week for vacation. On top of all that, I need to finish getting ready for my father’s party on Sunday. He’s turning eighty. I’ve told all our customers that anything we take in now won’t be ready until at least the week after next.”
The week after next? “But Mariel has to wear this on Saturday,” I said. “I’ll pay you whatever you want. Double, triple, you name it. I can’t sew, but I’ll do anything else you need if you can just put those two inches back in there.”
“If you can’t sew,” she said, “what could you possibly do to help me?”
I thought about that as I gazed at the counter, where someone had etched the word EUREKA in small letters in the wood. And then it came to me. “What do you need to do for your dad’s party?”
It turned out to be a long list. Food, liquor, drinks, decorations, party favors. I’d have to bounce around three or four towns to get it all done while making calls and going to various places to put the wedding back together. But what choice did I have? I had to get that gown fixed. “I’ll do it,” I said.
“Then so will I,” Bella said, and we shook on it.
On my way to the car I called Wade, the photographer I’d canceled just days before. He sounded a little bit smug when he told me he’d taken another job for Saturday. I couldn’t really blame him, not for taking the job or for sounding smug. I sat in the car and called every photographer I could find within a hundred miles. The ones who answered told me they were already booked, and I wasn’t optimistic about getting calls back from the others. We were in the middle of the summer, prime wedding season. I put the phone down. It was a lost cause. I couldn’t possibly conjure up a photographer at this late date. Unless…
I drove to the Duncan Arms, walked into the Pub Room, and asked the hostess for Jerome’s phone number. I wasn’t surprised when she said she couldn’t give it to me, but she called him while I was there and left a message for him to get in touch with me. Twenty minutes later, while I was on my way to the Hampstead Country Club, he phoned.
“Saturday?” he said after I’d explained everything. “This Saturday?”
“Yes. I know it’s last minute, but—”
“I thought you two weren’t speaking. I thought you weren’t going to the wedding.”
“I know. I wasn’t. But it’s all changed. We’ve made up. And I need a photographer. I canceled the one we had and now…well, I need one. Bad.” I crossed my fingers. “Can you do it?” Please say yes, please say yes.
“I’d love to help you, hon, I really would, but I work Saturday night. I’d switch shifts with somebody if I could, but I already know I can’t because I asked a few days ago—I wanted to go to a big party on the Cape this weekend—and all the other bartenders have plans. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” I said, feeling a sharp stab of disappointment.
“I wish I could help. I really do.”
I put on my blinker as I approached a turn. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I guess I’m paying the price for what I did—blaming my sister for things she didn’t do, refusing to admit my own part in what happened with my ex. Worst of all, sabotaging her wedding. I’m trying to put it back together now, but…” I glanced out the car window and willed myself not to cry. “Anyway, you don’t need to hear all that. Thanks for listening.”
We hung up and I wondered if I could find my old Nikon camera at the house. Maybe I could take some pictures and…oh, stop. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t a wedding photographer. Besides, I was a bridesmaid. Was I going to walk down the aisle with a camera slung over my shoulder? Maybe I’d have to. Maybe I’d have to ask some of the guests to take pictures as well. What a mess.
I drove on to the club, my stomach twisting. When I got there, I sat down with George Boyd in his office and gave him the final seating chart for the reception. I’d put all the guests back where they were supposed to be. At least I knew that would be correct. Then I told George I wanted to return to the original menu.
“So,” he said as he pulled up the file on his computer, “you’re saying you want the filet mignon instead of the burritos, the Dover sole instead of the fish sticks, the—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” I said. “The pigs in blankets are out, the grilled cheese is gone. We want all the food that was originally chosen.”
“Hmm.” He squinted at the monitor. “That might be a problem.”
I froze. “What do you mean?” The food had to work. It just had to.
“Your original menu included pheasant. Seventy people chose it as an entrée. I can’t get pheasant for seventy people overnight. It has to be fresh, and that’s not nearly enough lead time.”
No pheasant. I had a vision of my sister’s face as a server set a plate of chicken nuggets and fries in front of her. I told myself to stay calm. “Okay, we can’t do pheasant. Let’s replace it with something else. What can we do? How about Cornish game hens? Can you get those in time?”
He thought about that for a moment. “I can get them, yes.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Fabulous. Great.”
“You, uh, understand the overnight delivery is going to be expensive.”
I nodded. I certainly did. I’d be the one footing the bill. I couldn’t foist that on my mother. This wasn’t her fault. Thank God he could get the hens. I couldn’t believe it, but I was shaking. I’d been in these situations before, but this time was different. This was for my sister.
Sitting in the car in the club parking lot, I tried to reach Cecelia Russo. She wasn’t in, but I spoke to her assistant and explained that Mariel had decided to go with a strictly classical program after all. “Which means the Britney Spears is out.”
“Pity” was all her assistant said. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. I asked her to make sure Cecelia called me.
I did reach Brian Moran, the band’s keyboardist. “We’re not going to use those songs I called you about,” I told him. “You know, ‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,’ ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E,’ and those other ones.”
He assured me he’d remove them from the playlist. “I think that’s probably for the best,” he said. “They might be a little bit of a downer.”
A downer indeed.
I checked the band off the list, glad to have accomplished something else. Then I drove into town. At Hilliard’s, I returned the brass bookends with the cigar-holding hands and found some sterling-silver picture frames I hoped the bridesmaids would like. I thought about the day I was there with Carter and how much had changed since then. I also wondered what David was doing. I hoped I’d have a chance to tell him I’d done the right thing after all.
At St. John’s, the gray stone church my family had attended for years, Mrs. Bukes, who coordinated the weddings, welcomed me into a little office. I was relieved when we went over the timetable and final details for the ceremony. Everything seemed to be in order. That was, of course, after I crossed off “…Baby One More Time” in the wedding program and asked her to please reprint it.
I went to Cakewalk and left strict instructions with Annette, Lory Judd’s assistant, that they were not to put any of the photos I’d e-mailed on the wedding cake. “Just plain icing,” I told her.
“Aww, but that picture of your sister with the spaghetti in her hair is so cute,” Annette said, looking disappointed.
I repeated, “Just plain icing.”
At Hall’s Florist, I found Ginny working on an arrangement of pink roses and peonies. “You want to go back to the original plan?” She sounded a little gruff. “With the orchids? For Saturday?” She shook her head and frowned as she snipped a stem. “Nope. Sorry, but it’s too late. I can’t get them and do all the arrangements in time. We’ve got three other weddings this weekend. You’ll have to use what you ordered.”
What I’d ordered? Oh God. Hello, mums. Hello, Benadryl.