warped Cousin Sarah's definition of uneventful.
'Who is this Uncle Frank?' Mrs. Brewster asked, dubiously. 'I mean, is he a duly ordained, practicing minister?' I wondered if she thought we were kidding about the crazy part. She'd learn.
'Oh, yes,' Mother said, brightly. 'Ordained, at any rate, twenty-five or thirty years ago.'
'Is he Episcopalian?' Mrs. Brewster asked.
'Well, no,' Mother said. 'I can't remember the name, but it's a small, progressive-thinking denomination. Such a spiritual man. But he had to retire early and come home. He always had rather delicate nerves, and the stress of parish life was simply too much for him. He was pastor of a very large church in San Francisco then.'
'Haight-Ashbury, actually,' I said to Michael, in an undertone. Michael was suddenly overcome with coughing.
'He'll do wonderfully for the wedding,' Mother said, handing Michael a glass of water.
'As long as he's given up his theory that wearing clothing is a sinful attempt to hide oneself from the stern but just eye of the Lord,' I said. Now that I remembered who Cousin Frank was, I thought Cousin Kate would definitely be a safer bet.
'I'm sure everything will be fine,' Mother said, shaking her head as if to imply that I was teasing. 'He's looking forward to his release so eagerly that I'm sure he won't do anything that might delay it. Of course,' she went on thoughtfully, 'It might be just as well to dispense with the sermon. No sense tempting fate.'
'What a pity,' I remarked. 'I was looking forward to hearing the latest on the theological implications of UFO's and other extraterrestrial manifestations.' Michael appeared to be choking in earnest; I had to pound him on the back several times before he could speak.
'If you're really stuck for a volunteer, I could go after I deliver Mrs. Tranh and the ladies to the parish hall,' he offered, when he'd recovered.
'No, that's very sweet of you, Michael, but we don't want to send anyone who already has something useful to do,' Mother said. 'I'll have Jake do it,' she decided, and trotted out to issue Jake his orders.
I think it said a great deal for their sense of desperation that Samantha and Mrs. Brewster threw themselves into the arrangements for transporting Cousin Frank without saying a word about his suitability for the role into which we'd just drafted him.
With the problem of the minister taken care of, we raced to get everything else done on schedule. We ferried everyone over to the parish hall, leaving Mrs. Fenniman at the Brewsters' to harry the caterers, decorators, and musicians until shortly before the ceremony.
Samantha kept sending me back and forth to check on details. 'It's the little details that really make the occasion,' she said primly.
The press arrived, in the form of Mother's cousin Matilda who wrote the society column for the Town Crier. She kept trying to interview various members of the wedding party about the Reverend Pugh's death. She and I had some harsh words on the subject of the First Amendment when I finally kicked her out of the parish hall.
'Meg?' Pam asked, sticking her head in the door. 'Are you busy?'
'Of course not,' I snapped. 'What is it now?'
'Jake's back with Cousin Frank and his ...' Pam gestured vaguely as she looked for a suitably diplomatic word. 'Keeper' would have been my choice. 'Attendant' would have been reasonably polite. Before she could make up her mind on a word, the gentleman in question popped into the room.
'Meg,' Mother said sternly. 'We simply can't have Cousin Frank and his assistant wearing the clothes they've traveled in.' As if it were my fault that Cousin Frank arrived in jeans and a sports coat, accompanied by a burly uniformed orderly.
'Of course not. I called Richmond while Jake was on his way and found out their sizes. We have one of Rob's suits for Cousin Frank, and we've borrowed one from Mr. Brewster for the assistant. They're not quite the right size, but two of Michael's seamstresses are ready to do any minor alterations. They'll be fine.'
'Well, that's all right, then,' Mother said. 'Gentlemen, if you'll follow me,' I said. Cousin Frank and the ... assistant obediently followed me down to the basement of the parish hall where the men were dressing.
They cleaned up well, I had to admit. Once we had them in the suits, it almost looked as if we'd brought in a pair of distinguished clerics for the occasion, one white and one black. Cousin Frank was behaving impeccably, and Mr. Ronson, the attendant, was either a very good-natured man or found us all highly amusing. Possibly both. He followed Cousin Frank around unobtrusively and cheerfully, creating a small and unfortunately temporary trail of calm in his wake.
I went upstairs to report to Samantha that the minister was present and accounted for. When I stuck my head into the room she was, surprisingly, alone. Perhaps all the bridesmaids had gone off to gawk at Cousin Frank. Samantha had her back to the door and was talking on the phone.
'After the ceremony,' I heard her say into the mouthpiece. 'Yes. Yes, it's all arranged.'
I ducked back into the hall, prepared to eavesdrop a little more, and then heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Drat. I bustled into the room as if I had just arrived.
'Oh, sorry,' I said. 'Just wanted to tell you the minister has arrived.'
'Thank you, we'll talk later,' she said into the phone. In a very different tone of voice than the one I'd overheard.
What could she be up to? Arranging some sort of surprise? Well, luckily it wasn't likely to be for me. I wasn't in the mood for surprises.
We struggled into our dresses with the help of two of Michael's ladies. At least Samantha didn't need to be jollied out of last-minute jitters. She was icily calm, and no detail escaped her eye. Nothing shook her. At the last minute, we discovered a run in her pantyhose. No one could possibly have seen it, unless she was planning on dancing the cancan at the reception, which I doubted, but she insisted she couldn't go out with a run. Fortunately, I'd brought over an extra pair.
'Thank you,' she said. 'That was very organized of you.'
High praise from Samantha, and probably the only thanks I'd get for the past six months of effort. I found myself wincing as she slit open the plastic on the pantyhose package with one swift, graceful slice of her nail file.
It took a while for all the bridesmaids to totter down the stairs. And a while for us all to negotiate the rather damp walk to the door of the church. The atmosphere was humid as a jungle, and we heard occasional ominous rumbles of thunder in the distance. The impending storm, together with stage fright, seemed to set everyone on edge. There was much whining about ruined shoes and frizzing hair. Perhaps it would be better after the storm broke, although I dearly hoped that wouldn't happen until after the reception.
We marched in one by one, an interminable procession of pink ruffled dolls. I found myself slightly teary- eyed when we walked into the church, thinking of all the times I'd seen Reverend Pugh in the pulpit. I wondered if I was the only one thinking of him. There was a lot of sniffling in the congregation, but then there usually is at a wedding. I was momentarily startled when I thought I saw tears running down several people's faces. Then I realized it was probably only sweat; the church was an oven. I'll think about Reverend Pugh later, I told myself. The ceremony was beginning, and I had to concentrate on not fainting.
'If anyone here can show just cause why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony,' intoned Cousin Frank, 'Let him speak now or forever hold his peace.' He paused and looked around pugnaciously, as if daring anyone to speak out. Mr. Ronson, at his side, beamed at the congregation as if he were rather hoping someone would.
One of the ushers on my side of the circle picked that moment to faint. He fell over backwards, striking a large flower-twined candelabrum on his way down. The candelabrum fell, taking down two others with it in a chain reaction, and in leaping away from the falling candelabra, some of the wedding party set still more candelabra in motion. For a few moments, burning candles were flying through the air in every direction. Bridesmaids shrieked, ushers grabbed vases and doused small flames with the water they contained, without bothering to remove the flowers first. After a minute or so, when all the fires had been put out and stray candles and vegetation kicked aside, we noticed that the offending usher was not only still unconscious, but had managed to gash his head rather badly on the altar step. I stage-whispered orders to the remaining ushers to carry him out. Four of them got the idea immediately: they lifted him on their shoulders and marched decorously out. Perhaps a little too decorously; they rather resembled absentminded pallbearers who had mislaid the coffin. Fortunately the
