“Then that means it’s perfect,” Breaker says as we reach the door and step into the opulent church.
The entrance opens into a large cathedral space with natural wood beams crisscrossing against the vaulted ceiling. Rows and rows of pews face the altar while a red velvet carpet stretches along the candlelit aisle. The altar is intricately carved with the same natural wood as the beams while also draped in linens and an arrangement of flowers that seems rather extravagant for a mid-summer mass.
Leaning toward Breaker, I whisper, “I’m surprised the lit candles aren’t a fire hazard.”
“And those candleholders don’t look too sturdy.”
“Isn’t it just divine?” The Beave asks in awe. “We won’t be able to fit everyone into the pews, but we will live-stream the wedding to those waiting at the club for you to arrive.”
I blink a few times while I glance at the many pews. “How many people do you plan on inviting?” I ask.
“Ophelia, I emailed you the guest list.” She snaps her fingers, and her assistant appears at her side with a box. The Beave opens the box and pulls out the crown of a veil. “Now, let’s see this on.”
“Hold on, what guest list?” The Beave ignores me and slips the veil on top of my head, digging the clip deep into my scalp until I’m almost positive she drew blood.
“I sent it to you, Ophelia. Honestly, do we need to talk about organization?” She removes the rest of the veil from the garment box, dragging the tulle fabric out in piles. Jesus, how long is this thing? And why did she put it on my head?
“I guess I didn’t see it. I was sort of busy this weekend.”
Busy with Brian, her son.
“Well, if you took the time to worry about the upcoming nuptials, you would have seen I have a little over two thousand invites going out.” She gestures toward the aisle. “Now, please, walk down the aisle so I can see how this veil looks.”
I blink, completely oblivious to what’s happening to me. “Two . . . two thousand?” I ask, my mouth going dry. “Like two thousand people?”
“More like four to five. There are couples and families.” She gestures for me to walk again, but I stand still.
“Oh my God,” I say, my armpits starting to sweat. “That’s . . . that’s too many people. Can the club even hold that many people?”
“Of course not,” she says, waving her hand at me. “That’s why we have secured the private beach as well. It’s all about appearances, even if people won’t be able to see everything. Now, if you’ll please . . .” She motions down the aisle.
I turn to Breaker, my heart racing, my eyes pleading for help. “Did you hear that?” I say through clenched teeth, the veil tangling up in my legs. “Two thousand people, Breaker.”
Luckily, Breaker senses my panic. “That seems like a lot,” Breaker says. “Has Brian gone over the list?”
The Beave dismisses him with her hand. “Brian has better things to do than bother with wedding details.”
“But . . . it’s the start of his marriage. Don’t you think he should be a little interested?” Breaker asks.
Her head snaps toward Breaker. “He’s interested enough, but a guest list is menial. You should know the importance of his high-level job. I can’t be bothering him with these questions. That’s why I’m in charge. Now, Ophelia, walk down the aisle so I can see if the veil is right for you.”
“Yeah, but that’s a lot of people, Mrs. Beaver,” Breaker continues as I try to straighten the veil out. I kick at it with my feet while the assistant—not sure of her name—attempts to help as well. “Lia doesn’t do well in big crowds. Unless you want a bride passing out at the altar, I think you need to pare down.”
The Beave turns toward me and says, “That’s not true, is it?”
Not proven, but I could see it being a possibility, so I go with it. “I have weak knees,” I answer while tilting the crown of the veil. “Where did this veil come from?”
“It was mine from when I married. Please don’t kick at it with your hooves. It’s a precious heirloom.”
“Oh . . .” I smile. “It’s lovely. You can really smell the history.” Very . . . musty. “Anywho, can’t say that a passed-out bride at the altar will result in cherished wedding memories. If I pass out, it’s going to embarrass Brian.”
Anything that might harm, embarrass, or taint her son, The Beave is going to want nothing to do with it.
“I wasn’t aware that you’re a risk at the altar.” She glances down the aisle. “If you pass out, that would ruin the entire ceremony.”
No one likes a fainty bride.
“Yeah, and what if I hit my head on one of the pews?” I ask. “A cracked head leads to blood, and I don’t think guests will want it to be a gory wedding. Especially if I wear this heirloom veil. Not sure blood comes out easily from fabric like this. Perchance, do you know the length of it?”
“Fifty feet,” The Beave answers absentmindedly.
Fifty feet, dear God, who needs a veil that long? She’s not even royalty.
Cutting in, Breaker says, “White dress, blood, and gore doesn’t really say high-class wedding. Not to mention, she bleeds easily. We’re talking pools of blood.”
“Iron deficiency anemia,” I say, nodding my head.
“Well.” The Beave turns her nose up. “Perhaps I’ll speak with my doctor and get him to prescribe you some Xanax for the day to avoid any way of you passing out.”
Of course she would have a pharmaceutical solution.
“Uh, that won’t work,” I say, glancing up at Breaker, looking for help.
“Yeah,” he says, picking up on my plea. “That won’t work because . . . uh . . . well, she’s a puker.”
The Beave recoils in disgust, don’t blame her. Didn’t see that coming.
“Pardon me?” she asks.
Breaker nods, going with it. “Yup, a serious puker this one.” He points his thumb at me. “Any sort of medication that curbs her anxiety, she just pukes right up. And not just a little. It’s projectile. I remember a time in college when she took some calming meds—can’t quite remember what it was—but she took some before her final exam in data statistics and mechanics because she was so nervous. After the first ten minutes of dry heaving, she started throwing up all over her exam and the poor girl in front of her. It was a disaster. Since then, she’s stayed as far away from the medication as she can. I don’t think risking Xanax on the day is worth it, so I believe we should just cut down the guest list. How about you send it to me,” Breaker suggests. “Since I’m so immersed in who to rub elbows with, I’ll be able to pick who will be insulted and who doesn’t matter when it comes to being there.”
Puking during an exam? We couldn’t have found a less disgusting image to plant in my future mother-in-law’s head?
I glance over at The Beave, ready to see absolute disgust on her face. Instead, she has the lightest of smirks, like if I didn’t know her, I wouldn’t be able to tell, but there it is, plain as day, her often imprisoned joy.