Perfect

“Thankyouthankyou, Trinity!” Claire stands in the Town of Buck Rub’s Country Club lobby, looking like Bridal Guide Magazine threw up all over her. “I know it should’ve been Mom who organized the wedding, but she’s busy with Husband Number Five—” (eye roll). “In Paris.” (Second eye roll).

Yeah. Merci, Mom.

Claire continues. “So, I really, really appreciate my wonderful big sister taking charge of pulling this off. I can’t believe it! Bob and I are getting married in thirty minutes!” She squeals, clutching her lacy, white dress, sounding 16. But actually 28.

What is it about being a bride that seems to replace a smart businesswoman’s brain cells with those of a doe-eyed young girl? I mean, my sister is blonde, but not normally A Blonde.

“Sure thing, Claire. Ya know I got your back,” I smile, hiding my nervousness.

I am not one to organize anything. Take a look at my bedroom. Sweatpants and bras draped everywhere. I’m supposed to be the stereotypical older, plainer sister who is super-efficient. I got the ‘plain’ down, with a beaky nose and a complexion that looks like Rocky Road. The drab, brown pantsuit? Well, I thought it complemented my brown hair. But I just look like a piece of old wooden furniture. Brown brown brown. Super-efficient? Yeah, right. But no one else stepped up as Wedding Planner. My secret?

Delegate.

I figure, Mom’s paying for it all, with her wealth from Husband Number Three, Tad Thistlewaite IV, who also left connections with the local Country Club. Hence the venue. So moola being no object, I hired “Pete’s Perfect Party.” Ordered everything over the phone, and let Ol’ Pete figure it all out.

In fact, I just showed up a few minutes ago myself. The wedding actually takes place in the pool area behind the club. I can’t wait to see how Pete handled it all.

I glance around at the friends and family flocking through the elegant lobby, complete with chandelier, and through the French Doors to the outside pool. I spy some old high-school friends and Great-Aunt Ruth with her walker. And then I spot Susie Saksworth. Head of every social committee in Buck Rub. She sashays my way, hands on her slim hips, dressed of course to kill, in a little black dress. It must be Gucci. Her adoring gaggle follows, not far behind.

“I do declare, Trinity, I can’t wait to see how you arranged this wedding. I’m going to have Mary Beth Perkins write it all up in the Buck Rub Times.”

My tummy flops, filled with butterflies holding a convention.

I hate Susie Saksworth. She’s so plastic.

Susie looks outraged. The gaggle gasps.

Wait. Did I just say that out loud?

Oops.

My straight, lank hair falls forward to hide my red cheeks, as I flee to the French Doors leading out to the pool patio. I hear the synthesized wedding music starting the prelude, and the lobby crowd thins out, as people take their seats outside.

Pete materializes at my side, smiling unctuously.

“Hi there, Ms. Bloombury.”

“Call me Trinity,” I pleasantly greet the man who made it all so easy.

“There may have been a few snags in setting up the wedding … but it’ll still be Pete-Perfect,” he oozes charm, his thinning hair sweaty against his balding head.

Snags?

That doesn’t sound good.

“Wh-what are the problems?” I stutter.

Pete straightens his pink-spotted tie, and walks up to the French Doors, in the suddenly empty lobby, and beckons. “Let me show you.”

“Um, sure.” I want to bite my nails, but I’m pretending to be a lady.

Pete flings open the doors and gallantly gestures me through.

I take in the sights. There’s a saltwater pool in the middle of the concrete, fenced area, with caterers busy readying the tables of food on one side, and white folding chairs on the other, containing about 80 bored-looking guests, and one nervous-looking Bob at the makeshift altar.

That’s the kindest description of the venue. Now for the reality.

The wedding flowers and balloons.

Pete clears his throat. “We may have had a mix-up with Miss Flora’s funeral decorations.”

I gaze at the somber arrangements of white lilies everywhere. Well, brides wear white. This isn’t so bad.

But the black balloons …

Little Jamel Robbins reaches his sticky hand over and releases three of the bajillion round monstrosities to the blue sky.

Everyone looks up.

Three black balloons sporting “I’m Sorry” spread to the heavens. Complete silence. Then a few chuckles.

My butterflies frantically flap their wings and I clutch my stomach. Maybe I’m getting an ulcer. Happy thought.

Surely that’s all the snags.

Pete coughs subtly. “We also had a bad connection when you placed your order. I’m not sure you meant to order, well …”

A splash in the pool catches my eye.

“Was that a fish? Am I seeing many fish?” I feel like throwing up.

Pete hastens to explain. “I distinctly remember you saying, ‘Pirahna put there in the saltwater pool. Go all out.’”

I stare at him, incredulously. “I said, ‘I wanna not spare in the saltwater pool. Go all out.’ I meant with the decorations, Pete! The decorations! Not flesh-eating creatures!”

Great-Aunt Ruth shuffles toward a seat, crossing the pool area, where caterers are setting up the food. A waiter carrying two trays of sushi trips over her walker, and son-of-a-gun, if Aunt Ruth doesn’t go airborne. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” wafts peacefully across the patio, as Ruth flies in slo-mo.

The crowd gasps.

Well. This wedding is not going according to plan.

Luckily, the two trays land in the pool before Aunt Ruth, who manages to straddle both floating rectangles, one foot squarely in the middle of each. Sushi flies everywhere, and piranha leap and devour them.

The sushi, not Aunt Ruth. Yet.

“Whee!” Aunt Ruth water-skis over to the pool edge, the trays moving with momentum, and Country Club pool boys frantically grab her before Ruth is fish food.

The crowd cheers.

Hmm … maybe this isn’t a total disaster.

“So, no more snags, right?” I glare at Pete.

Pete looks like he’s trying to tell me something. Something big.

My maybe-ulcer twinges. I moan.

Claire gestures wildly from behind her privacy screen. I stumble over to listen.

I am dreading this conversation.

What turns a successful, good-natured businesswoman into Bridezilla?

Black balloons and piranha.

“Trinity, what the hell is going on? I’m not even going to mention Aunt Ruth’s near demise. The pastor isn’t here!”

Flames of rage shoot from her eyes. I swear.

I turn to the party-planning professional. “Pete?”

Pete’s eyes dart from Claire to me. He looks like a trapped weasel. “Um, there’s been a mix-up.” He nervously adjusts his pink tie.

A scantily-clad redhead in a French Maid outfit, with a black bustier attempting to cover alarming curves, prances over to Claire, Pete, and me.

“Miss Peachy Cheeks, here for your Bachelor Party, ma’am.”

My jaw drops.

Claire’s red flames flare up in her raging blue eyes.

“Trinity …” Claire growls threateningly.

“Pete …” I growl even more threateningly.

I imagine the bachelor party’s expressions when Father Thomas walks through the door. Poor Father Thomas. Let’s hope he’s not beat to a pulp.

But back to Peachy Cheeks.

Claire explodes. “All this money for a perfect wedding and we have no pastor? What are we gonna do?”

The crowd evidently is listening because I can practically hear them hold their collective breath.

And everyone looks at me.

Running away to Tahiti is sounding more and more appealing.

I open my mouth, but before I can come up with some bullshit answer, the barely-clad Peachy Cheeks clears her throat.

“I may be able to help there, chicklet. I got me a certificate saying I’m a Wedding Off-ic-iant,” she drawls. “Online courses can do wonders.”

Claire’s expression changes from Death-to-Sister, into Praise-the-Stripper.

“Could you? Lady, that’d be fantastic! Bob isn’t going to wait at the altar forever.” We all look at Bob, who scratches his butt and looks bored.

My sister picked a real winner.

Peachy Cheeks, in her gold stiletto heels, minces over to the altar, and the synthesizer skips to “Here Comes the Bride.”

Mary Beth Perkins, of Susie Saksworth’s gaggle, snaps a pic of the relieved bride walking stately to the front of the altar. Complete with “I’m Sorry” balloons and a French Maid.

I can’t wait for the wedding photos.

And don’t forget the article in the Times, I remind myself.

“We are gathered here today …” Peachy attempts a serious vibe.

I suddenly hear the songbirds in the trees. And feel the cool spring breeze. And see the shining rays of the sun.

My tummy relaxes.

Calm down, Trinity. Life is good. Aunt Ruth is alive. People got a kick out of the balloons. And the crowd is rooting for Peachy. Things could be worse.

Pete disappears into the crowd, probably avoiding me after the wedding. Smart man.

I listen to the surprisingly good job of Peachy Cheeks, Wedding Officiant and Stripper Extraordinaire, and I feel my stress dissipate.

TWANG.

What’s that?

One bustier button goes flying, and the wobbly, barely-there ensemble attempts to hold together.

The crowd inhales sharply.

Peachy seems oblivious.She states, “Do you take …”

The Stripper-Officiant makes a grand gesture to the fascinated crowd, as the Bride and Groom turn to each other.

And …

TWANG.

TWANG.

TWANG.

Oh my god …

Vast silence.

I hear Susie Saksworth let out a huge guffaw. The crowd roars.

Claire and Bob are laughing as they yell, “I do!”

Well, hells.

I have to chuckle.

Best. Wedding. Ever.