So Jilly would spend the weekend corralling her siblings and working the Cheese Therapy register while scoping out cute boys in a bigger city. Meanwhile, I’d go to Colby, where I’d spend Friday night assisting my mom and William with the rehearsal dinner—a clambake on the beach with a Tiki Hut theme—and Saturday working the main event (formal, at a hotel overlooking the ocean, surf and turf stations to follow).
If I’d actually been a guest, this probably would have sounded great. As it was, all I could think about was the combination of food and sand (never good in practice) and a very important wedding taking place in a venue I’d not yet seen. At home, we had extensive notes on every place we’d staged ceremonies, detailing pertinent issues like hard-to-find exits, squeaky floors, or rattling pews. Out of town, though, we were everywhere for the first time.
At least it was a nice weekend, warm with sunny and clear skies forecast, and I would be at the beach. With this in mind, I’d splurged earlier in the week on a new black sundress and gold-accented sandals for the occasion. As we drove east, the subdivisions and interstates giving way to farmland and two-lane roads, I could feel the work-related kink in my neck slowly relaxing. I could only hope the drive was having the same effect on my mother in the van ahead of me.
Once over the bridge to Colby, we turned onto the main road, which was bottlenecked with tourists. FRESH SHRIMP! read one sign I studied as I crawled along, followed by WHO NEEDS TRAFFIC? RENT A BIKE FROM ABE’S! with an arrow pointing to the nearby boardwalk. After what felt like an hour of exhaust, brake lights, and the occasional glimpse of ocean, blue and wide, we finally turned into the lot of a high-rise hotel called the Piers. The main building was so white in the bright sun that just looking at it made my head hurt. As I parked, pushing open the door, I could already hear my mother complaining. So much for a relaxing drive.
“This sun!” she said to William, instead of hello, as he walked over. As usual, he was perfect and unruffled in his khakis, short-sleeved checked shirt, and very clean white Adidas sneakers. In contrast, my outfit, after three hours in the car, looked like I’d balled it up in my hand multiple times. There were a lot of things I envied about William (just about everything, actually) but top on the list was how he always looked serene and flawless, even under the most dire of circumstances. “Old New England suppression and denial,” he called it, which made it sound less like something to covet. I still did, though.
Now he just looked at my mom, reflected in his aviator sunglasses, flapping her arms around and trying to kick up a breeze as she continued, “At almost exactly this time tomorrow, we’ll have a sixteen-member wedding party in full dress out in this. If everyone doesn’t faint it will be a miracle.”
“You’re forgetting the pergolas,” he said mildly. “We didn’t insist on them, and the fluttering tulle, purely for the looks of it.”
“We’ll need a lot more than fluttering tulle to deal with this,” my mom grumbled, dabbing at her (not sweaty, from my view) brow. “But that’s tomorrow. Let’s find the caterer and see how this dinner is shaping up. Louna, can you start the unloading? The ballroom door is supposed to be just over there, behind the Dumpsters, and unlocked. They’re expecting us.”
Great, I thought, even as I nodded. They’d go into the A/C to talk tiki torches while I schlepped boxes of centerpieces, my mother’s preferred table linens, and glassware across a hot parking lot. I could still hear her complaining as they walked away.
That night, the rehearsal went well, with only a few basic wrinkles. (Meltdown from flower girl, bossy wedding planner wannabe aunt of bride, impatient officiant. This last was a pet peeve of us all. Nobody liked a snappy minister.) By the time Margy and her groom, Josef, play-walked down the aisle together, with her carrying the bouquet of ribbons from her bridal shower, everyone was ready for a drink. As they adjourned to the beach, my mother had the caterers waiting with trays of champagne, the tiki torches lit and flaming around them. Let the party begin.
“Well, that’s done,” she said to William, giving a cordial-but-not-exactly-warm nod to the bossy aunt as she passed us. “Here’s hoping the actual event goes so smoothly.”
“That was smooth?” he asked, his eyes following a bridesmaid in wobbly platform sandals who was trying to navigate the steps to the beach. “Just once I’d like to get an officiant who was happy to do their job.”
“Like you’re always happy to do yours?”
“Exactly,” William replied. A pause. Then they both laughed, as if this was hysterical. I rolled my eyes, turning back to the party as two of the groomsmen walked by us. One of them was about my age and built like a football player, with dark hair cut short and blue eyes. The kind of boy that you can easily picture as a little kid, that cute. As he passed by, he smiled at me, and I felt my face flush, even as I tried to imitate my mother’s efficient, businesslike nod in return. Once he went down the stairs to the beach, I realized William was watching me, amused, and felt embarrassed all over again.
After the dinner, the guests moved the party to the hotel bar and, thankfully, out of our jurisdiction. I helped my mom, William, and the caterers break down the tables and chairs, then brought a purse, a phone, and a monogrammed flask to the hotel lost and found. (Someday, I’d write an entire book about the things people left behind at weddings. I just had this feeling it all meant something.) By ten thirty, I was back in my room eating a pack of crackers from the vending machine and texting with Jilly, who was in a hotel room with Crawford watching a marathon of swamp fishing shows while the “youngers” (her term) all slept.
SO BORED, she reported. IF I SEE ANOTHER CATFISH I MIGHT SCREAM. TELL ME YOU ARE GOING TO GO OUT AND DO SOMETHING EPIC TONIGHT.
OF COURSE I AM, I wrote back.
SURE. I BET YOU ARE IN BED ALREADY.
I balled up the cracker wrapper, threw it in the general direction of the nearby trashcan, and missed.
I’LL DO EPIC TOMORROW. PROMISE.
YOU BETTER. IF I CAN’T, YOU HAVE TO!