The Balance Thing (10 page)

D
ay Five. Wedding Day. The ceremony was scheduled to begin at six that evening. The panic began at dawn.

I'd stumbled to my room only five hours earlier, after a day filled with anxiety (Connie's), obscenities (the wedding planner's, whose name was Mona and whose voice I heard in my dreams that night), frustrations (Vida's, caused by the consistently friendly-yet-unromantic behavior of Phillip Hastings), and despair (mine, fueled by the continued absence of one Sir Charles Shipley).

“Becks!” Connie banged on the door and barged in. “Get up! The florist will be here in an hour, and the caterer will be setting up in the kitchen at nine, and the rehearsal is at noon, and we all need to be getting hair and makeup taken care of by two!”

I looked blearily at the bedside clock. “That's eight hours from now. I think I'll make it.”

Max appeared in the doorway. “What's all the fuss? Connie, did you cancel the wedding?”

She gave him a look that singed his eyebrows. “Don't even joke about it.” Then she whacked me over the head
with a pillow and yelled “Get up!” once more before heading off to Vida's room to give her the same treatment.

“Max, can you drug her or something?” I asked when she'd gone. Then I took a good look at him. “What are you doing dressed at this hour?”

He put a finger to his lips and slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Don't tell anyone. I'm just getting in.”

“Just…did you guys go out drinking again last night?” And did the LOTM meet up with you? I wanted to ask but didn't.

“Some of us. Look, Becks, I need your advice about something.” He sat on the bed and took a deep breath.

“Max!” Connie flung the door open and stood with hands on hips. “Would you leave her alone? She has a lot to do today. Becks, for the love of God, get up!”

Max rose and saluted the bride. “Yes ma'am.” Then he winked at me. “Talk later?”

“Sure.” I immediately forgot about him.

 

THE FLOWERS WERE PERFECT.
The food was perfect. The cake was beyond perfect. Only Connie was a mess. Vida and I tag-teamed her all morning, doing our best to calm her down every ten seconds while also keeping her out of Mona-the-fire-breathing-wedding-planner's way. We merely carried the messages between the two, until even that became too dangerous.

“Look.” Mona threw down the orchid corsage she was inspecting and turned on me with a pair of the florist's shears. “If that bloody bride doesn't think I can handle one bloody
country wedding, she can fire me, right? Otherwise, keep her the fuck out of my face and let me do my fucking job!”

When I translated this diplomatically to Connie as “I really do think Mona has a handle on it, Con. Really, you can relax,” I was answered with “I can
relax
on the most important day of my
life
? Don't you understand
anything
?” At which point she burst into tears and I turned her over to Roger and Shayla for makeup damage control.

The only break came during the noon rehearsal. All three bridesmaids had been able to walk down the aisle and stand in our assigned positions to everyone's satisfaction, so we got to sit for a while as Connie and Ian went over the intricacies of the ceremony in excruciating detail.

After a few minutes of this, Max plopped down next to me, earning a basilisk stare from Mona.

“Don't crush the ribbon,” I warned him in a whisper. Each of the two hundred white chairs had been decorated with a large white silk organza ribbon tied in a floppy bow. It was Connie's belief that each bow should flop identically, and hours had been spent on the task already. Max didn't need to earn a death threat by messing one up.

“I need to talk to you,” Max said softly. “When are you done here?”

I gave him a “You have no idea” look. “Around midnight, probably. What's going on?”

He glanced beyond me. Vida was looking our way. “What's up?” she mouthed.

“Never mind.” Max sat back and crossed his legs, brushing against the bow of the chair in front of him and causing Mona to start toward him with narrowed eyes.

Max clearly felt a strategic retreat was called for. He
stood. “Tell Hitler she shouldn't wear pink,” he said, nodding toward Mona. Then he fled.

 

THEY SAY MOTHERS
forget the discomfort of pregnancy and the pain of childbirth as soon as their new baby is placed in their arms. It was a little like that with me and Connie. She'd driven me crazy for weeks leading up to the ceremony, but when I saw her walking down the aisle looking regal and impossibly serene and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined, I forgot and forgave everything. And I wasn't even the groom.

The weather was ideal, the music was flawless, the vicar was eloquent, and the guests were suitably moved. I didn't cry. I never cry. But I think mine were probably among the very few dry eyes in the house.

Walking back up the aisle after the ceremony in a shower of rose petals, Vida and I were each on the arm of a smiling and proper groomsman. But I knew Vida was wishing hers were Phillip—he and Trinny, as best man and maid of honor, were together ahead of us—and I was checking the crowd in vain for Sir Charles Shipley.

While the guests scattered around on the lawns and were offered champagne and lovely little bits to nibble on, those of us in the wedding party were situated on the grand staircase for photographs. We were ordered into formation after formation, instructed where to look and how to smile, and generally browbeaten into panoramic splendor.

Toward the end of the ordeal, Phillip approached Vida somewhat hesitantly and asked if she had a moment for a quiet word.

She did. As he led her off toward the conservatory, she turned around to give me an “Oh my God” look. I held up crossed fingers.

Connie appeared at my side. “Do you think they're going to get together?”

My jaw dropped. “You mean you know about them?”

She gave me a squeeze around the shoulders. “I may have been a little preoccupied lately, but I'm not blind.”

A little preoccupied?

“And what about you and…” She nodded her head in the direction of the terrace.

I followed her glance and stopped breathing. I'd seen him dressed formally on several occasions by now, but the vision of Sir Charles Shipley in a tux still made me reel.

“Go for it,” Connie whispered.

“I have every intention,” I assured her.

 

I GAVE IT A GOOD TRY.
But as I approached him on the terrace, Mona ordered the wedding party to assemble into a reception line. Then, as I moved toward him during the designated milling-around-munching-prawn-thingies period, Ian's father slapped him on the back and propelled him to the bar. Later, as I followed on the heels of a waiter bearing champagne, Trinny cut me off by asking his opinion of the toast she would give. Finally, as I was within inches of him inside the tent, he was swept away by an agitated Phillip.

Phillip? Then where the hell was Vida? I looked around the tent and saw only Max, trying frantically to get my attention. I hoisted my skirts and made for him.

“What—?”

“This way.” He shoved me out of the tent. “Vida's in her room and I can't get her to come out. She won't talk to me. She won't listen to reason.”

“What the hell did Phillip do to her?” I picked up the pace and we arrived breathless at Spinster Alley.

“Vida? It's Becks.” I tried the door. “Let me in. Vee, what's wrong?”

The door opened a crack to reveal Vida's furious face. “You can come in, but that backstabbing bastard who used to be my friend can't.”

Max held up his hands in surrender. I went in. “Vee—”

“He's
gay
!” she announced. Which was a little confusing, since Max had been out of the closet since roughly the age of nine.

“Of course he's—” Then I stopped. Because I got it. “Phillip?”

She flopped on her bed and was all but swallowed by the yards and yards of coffee-colored satin that made up her dress. “Max knew.”

“Max?” I needed a minute to catch up. “Max and Phillip?”

“I didn't sleep with him,” I heard Max yell through the door. “I'm the one who insisted he tell you.”

“Vida, I'm opening the door,” I said.

“Vida,” Max pleaded when he came in. “Please. He's not out—his career would be over. Nobody knows. You couldn't have known.”

Vida stared at him. “You seemed to figure it out.”

“We were drinking,” Max said, “at the stupid lad's night thing. And I just knew all of a sudden, and—”

“You don't need to draw us a picture!” Vida snapped.

“Vida, I swear,” Max insisted. “I told him I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, and that he had to tell you. We were up all night talking—”

“I'll just bet you were—”

“Look, I'm your friend, you moron”—he cut her off—“and I love you, and he's actually a very decent guy who likes you a lot, and neither of us intended to hurt you.”

There was a silence as Vida seemed to digest what Max had said. Then she took the only reasonable course of action. She started to cry.

“Vida,” Max said gently. He sat on the bed and put his arms around her.

“I expect this in San Francisco, you know.” She took the handkerchief from his breast pocket. “But I thought we'd be on safer ground in England.”

“Oh, my dear, you know nothing about Englishmen,” Max said.

“Clearly.”

There was a polite tap at the door. Shayla peered in. “Something told me it might be time for a little repair work.” She held up her makeup case. “What's the drama?”

“Nothing much.” Vida blew her nose. “Max has found true love and I've got a new tennis buddy and that's just the way things go.”

“Uh huh.” Shayla seemed unfazed. She turned to me. “What about you and the duke?”

“After dinner,” I promised her.

 

I MADE EYE CONTACT
with him all through the long formal meal. I was trapped at the head table and he was over
at another with a bunch of people I didn't know, but we definitely made eye contact. Which made it all the more frustrating that he disappeared as soon as the dancing started.

“You really didn't have very good luck with him dancing, though,” a newly philosophical Vida pointed out. “Maybe you'd be better off lurking by the bar until he needs a drink.”

We lurked. The only problem with the plan is that we drank while we lurked, and after a while we realized we should lurk no more.

“I need some fresh air,” Vida said. “It's been a long day.”

We stepped out of the tent and found the stars had come out, the fountain and house were lit up like a fairy tale, and it was just so romantic I wanted to kick something.

Vida sighed.

“Are you really all right?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “Like I could ever have been happy with someone who calls soccer football. God, my feet hurt.”

I had a brilliant idea. “Let's go down to the dock and stick our feet in the lake.”

“That's a brilliant idea,” Vida told me, which should demonstrate how much we'd had to drink. “I was going to jump in the fountain, but we're much less likely to get yelled at down by the lake.”

We came around the side of the tent and nearly ran into Mona, but she wouldn't have noticed anyway because she was arm in arm with Connie.

“You're absolutely the best fucking bride I've ever worked with, Mrs. Hastings, and I bloody well mean that.”

“No, Mona, you're the best. You're the best wedding planner in the whole world—better than me.”

Vida and I had to run away before they heard us laughing.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing her wrist as we got closer to the dock. “Someone's beaten us to it.”

The music was drifting down the hill, and there were two figures, silhouetted by the moonlight on the water, swaying gently to the song. It was the most perfectly romantic thing I'd seen all the long romantic day.

“Are you okay?” I asked Vida, who was staring at the couple with an unreadable expression. “You're not thinking it should be you?”

She shook her head. “They look good together, don't they?”

We left before Phillip and Max even knew we'd been there.

 

SHAYLA MET UP WITH US
as we got back to the party. “Becks!” she called in a loud whisper. “Get over here!”

“What?”

She grabbed me and turned me toward the fountain. Once again I stopped breathing. Because the only sight that could possibly top that of Sir Charles Shipley in a tux was Sir Charles Shipley by moonlight, in front of the floodlit fountain, with his tie undone and his collar open.

“That's the sexiest man I've ever seen in my life,” Shayla said seriously. “And if you don't do something about it right this minute, I swear to God I will.”

She pushed me forward with her fingertips, and as if I were drawn by his orbital pull, I approached the Lord of the Manor.

“Rebecca,” he said as I got closer, “you do look lovely in that dress.”

I went straight up to him, locked my eyes on his, reached up to run my hands through his hair, pulled him toward me, and kissed him as if my life depended on it.

It was right about then that the fireworks started.

 

“THIS WAY,” HE GASPED,
pulling me toward him and kissing me again as we turned down another hallway. “Quickly!” He put his arm around my waist and pulled me after him, pausing every few steps so we could lock lips again or pull urgently at each other's clothes.

“Here!” he said suddenly, and propelled me through a door to a dimly lit chamber that seemed to be all velvet furniture and tapestries.