MICHAEL AND THE LADIES MANAGED TO GET ERIC’S OUTFIT READY for Friday evening’s wedding rehearsal. We’d decided to hold it in partial costume, so everyone could get used to some of the unusual gear they’d be wearing. The bridesmaids adapted easily to the trains, but it took a while for the men to learn to walk without tripping over the swords.
“What do you think?” Michael asked, as we surveyed the bridal party.
“I think most of these men ought to have known better than to agree to wear tights. And arming them was another mistake,” I added watching two of the ushers draw their supposedly ornamental swords and strike what I’m sure they thought were dashing fencing poses.
“Let’s go and straighten them out,” Michael said. “The same thing happens whenever we do a period play with weapons. Everyone starts thinking he’s Zorro.”
“Oh, give it a few minutes,” I said, as one overzealous usher narrowly missed skewering the beastly Barry in a particularly painful place. “Maybe his aim will improve.”
I glanced at Michael, who was leaning elegantly against a tree trunk and watching the ushers’ antics with lofty amusement. I sternly suppressed the distracting mental picture of how much better he would look in tights than any of the ushers.
Or, for that matter, in the elaborate Renaissance priest’s costume he’d modeled for us in the shop. Like Michael, Father Pete was inspired by the costume to do a little swashing and buckling. Unfortunately, aside from his height, he bore no resemblance at all to Michael. He was only a little on the pudgy side, but his round,
fair, freckled face, and thinning sandy hair looking distinctly incongruous atop the elegant sophistication of his costume. Ah, well.
The rehearsal went about as well as could be expected, which meant it fell slightly short of being an unmitigated disaster.
“A bad dress rehearsal makes a good performance,” Michael remarked to anyone who fretted.
“It damn well better,” I muttered through gritted teeth. Having Barry hovering over me was not helping my mood. Or having to listen to Eric gloating over the payment he was getting for his bit part as ring bearer.
“Aunt Meg is taking me and all my friends to ride the roller coaster!” Eric informed Barry. Not for the first time.
“Not all of your friends,” I said. “One. And only if you behave yourself during the wedding and the reception.”
“Right!” Eric said, and trotted off, no doubt to be sure I couldn’t actually catch him doing anything that constituted not behaving.
“I think that’s great,” Barry said, and then in an apparent non sequitur, added, “I want a large family myself.”
“How nice for you,” I said. “Personally, I prefer being an aunt. You can take your nieces and nephews out and have fun with them and then dump them back on their parents when they’re tired and hungry and cranky.”
Barry blinked a couple of times and then wandered off.
“You don’t really feel that way about kids,” Michael said, over my shoulder.
“No, as a general rule, I like children,” I said. “But I’m sure I could make an exception for any offspring of Barry’s.”
We ran through the proceedings a second time with slightly better results. I decided to leave well enough alone.
“Okay, everyone, you can leave now,” I said. “But be back here at eleven tomorrow. No exceptions.”
“You’d make a great stage manager,” Michael remarked.
“Or a drill sergeant,” I replied. “I think everything we can control is under control.”
“As long as we don’t have a thunderstorm we’ll be okay,” Eileen’s father said, frowning at the sky.
As if in answer, the sky rumbled.
“Uh-oh,” Michael said.
“Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” Mrs. Fenniman chanted. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”
“Was there a red sky tonight?” Michael asked.
“Who had time to look?” I said.
“Meg, we’re not going to have a thunderstorm, are we?” Eileen asked. As if there were something I could do about it if we were.
“Not according to the weatherman,” I said. “Not according to all three of the local weathermen.”
“Weatherpeople, Meg,” Mother corrected. “Channel Thirteen has a weather lady.”
“Whatever,” I said. “All the weatherpeople say sunny skies tomorrow, thank goodness.”
“But what if they’re wrong this time?” Eileen wailed. “It would absolutely spoil everything if we had a thunderstorm!” Then why did you dimwits shoot down every backup plan I suggested, I said to myself, and then immediately felt guilty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’d be able to tell us if it were going to rain cats and dogs all day. If it’s only scattered thundershowers, all it can do is delay us slightly. And that’s no problem. I mean, nobody’s going to kick us out of your yard if we run late. Your cousin the priest isn’t going anywhere. The guests are there for the duration. It’ll be fine.”
“Oh, I just know it’s going to rain,” she moaned. And repeated, several times, while the rest of us were exchanging farewells. In fact, as I walked down the driveway with Dad and Michael, the last thing I heard was Eileen, plaintively wailing, “Oh, I just know the rain’s going to spoil everything.” Followed by my
mother, in her most encouraging maternal tones, saying, “Don’t worry, dear; if it does, Meg will think of something.”
“Please, let it be nice and sunny tomorrow,” I muttered.