Destination Wedding

The warm, moist sea breeze was steady. It played havoc with all hairstyles, no matter how much lacquer had been applied. The flowers on the wedding bower, one by one, abandoned their job. The wind revealed that the priest was wearing slacks under his robe. The bridesmaids did not have that protection.

This fun-filled weekend had been in the making since the day after Valentine's last year when Bridgit sent a mass text announcing that Paul had ("finally, after six whole months of dating") popped the question. Just between you and me, Bridgit may have hinted that he needed to - how shall I say this politely? Fish or cut bait.

Bridgit, who had spent decades researching weddings, with the same intensity of a bio-geneticist trying to clone a spare self, threw herself into her life's dream. Since fulfilling her ambition of pulling off the wedding of the decade, if not the century, would absorb all her time, she stepped back from her day job, volunteering at the three museums in town. Of course, she would still be available to attend the annual fund raiser balls.

She hired a wedding planner and gave us, her adoring audience, daily updates on venue possibilities, color choices, what font to use, or whether to hire someone to do calligraphy on each of the five hundred plus double envelope invitations. She questioned us on who could make the best, most unique cake. And we anguished with her as she pondered where to buy the best, most expensive, wedding dress. And the age-old conundrum, would one dress suffice?

By the fourth of July, when she fired the wedding planner and hired the second one, following her texts was like watching a massive car pile-up in super slo-mo. You cringe but have to stare while you wait breathlessly for the last hub cap to stop spinning.

I work with Paul, have for years. Consider him one of my best friends. When I came back from my fourth of July holiday, Paul seemed a bit worn, tired, frazzled you could say. He tried to be positive about the whole wedding preparation storm. "She'll be back to her normal, sweet self, afterwards." He repeated every time I saw him.

I probably should have told him more about the Bridgit I've known since first grade. I'll never forget the production she made of her seventh birthday. She had dressed up in a princess costume, with tiara, of course. She had convinced, cajoled or threatened her mother into baking enough jelly filled cupcakes with peanut butter icing for everyone in grades one through six. Just think! That's roughly one hundred and eighty cupcakes, not counting the ones that were misshapen or not iced to her exacting standards.

During morning recess, Bridgit's mother and aunt stood in the lobby, ready to hand one cupcake to each child. Miss Bridgit stood next to them, smiling and graciously accepted mumbles of "pyburthay". When a few of the children declined, Bridgit stomped her foot and shamed the poor hapless tykes into eating the treat. She never forgave those children for ruining her birthday by having severe allergic reactions to the peanut butter.

I'm pretty sure that, over a couple pints, I entertained Paul with some of the stuff Bridgit organized in high school. I know I told him about the time she made her homecoming court dress in tights and tutus - in late October in the mid-west, on a parade float. But he must have forgotten by the time he started dating her.

The texts with pictures, loads of pictures continued. Bridgit in dress after dress after dress. Pictures of cake after cake after cake. When, by Halloween, she announced that she had picked The Dress, the collective sigh of relief all over town caused all the leaves to drop on the same day.

By Thanksgiving, however, she doubted her decisions and the search for everything resumed. Come to think of it, it was the same time that planner number two exited and planner number three was hired. New venues were discussed, new color schemes pondered, new bakes vetted. Paul took two weeks at Christmas to go on his annual ski vacation with his cousin Jim. Based on the continued barrage of texts and photos about cakes, place settings, guest favors and crystal, I'm not sure if Bridgit was aware that Paul was out of town.

By Valentine's planner number three left before Bridgit could fire her. It took a full two weeks for Bridgit to stop her tirade. After all, if anyone leaves her orbit, they do so because she wishes it, not on their own steam. The gossip around town was that no event planner would work with her, not to mention that all "acceptable" venues were now booked during "her" weekend. Paul tried, once, to tell her that postponing the wedding to September would be okay. He walked away intact from that interaction and learned to go with the flow.

Though flow is really not the word to describe the force five hurricane with tsunami-sized flood surges, named Bridgit.

Someone suggested, carefully, a destination wedding. And this is where it became interesting. After many frantic online searches, Bridgit found a small private island in the Caribbean. Of course, she'd have to cut back her wedding extravaganza from six hundred and fifty to seventy-five guests. Amazingly, she sucked that up. She spent hours and hours online and on the phone with the local event planner to nail down all her requests. Those of you who have ever vacationed on any of the many enchanting, laidback Caribbean islands, know that all requests are answered with "Yah mon. No problem, mon." And only those requests that can be filled with not too much effort will be filled, sort of.

The weekend finally arrived. According to the itinerary that Bridgit had sent us, three times, we were to assemble at one of the local private airfields at ten on Friday morning. Right on time, meaning thirty minutes late, the charter plane took off. When we arrived on the island, we hiked for a good ten minutes from the air strip to the main building. Dragging, carrying and/or rolling our luggage over the dirt path. Since I assumed a weekend on the beach called for swim attire, one carry-on bag sufficed for me.

Naturally, there was mad pandemonium at the check-in counter. Rather than stand and listen to gripes, sighs and grumbles, I found the nearest bar - one of my more useful talents - and introduced myself to Alvin, the bartender. I didn't count, but Alvin and I were great friends by the time I had consumed probably a sixpack and a half of Red Stripe. If the topic had come up, I might even have entertained fond thoughts about Bridgit by then.

Yes, I should have stepped up to the check-in counter earlier. By the time I stumbled into the lobby, my room had been given to one half of a couple who were no longer talking to each other. I'm easy going so I shrugged and weaved back to the bar for another Red Stripe, convinced that the universe would provide. And I was right! Alvin took pity on me and found an empty bed in the servant's quarters. The best thing about this arrangement was that Bridgit would never think of looking for me there.

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast in the servant's mess, by the way, the food is fresher there than what the guests get, I moseyed to the beach. While I was reserving one of the jet skis, I chatted with Bernie, the man in charge of said skis. He told me that "weather might be coming. our way". He speculated that it would not be before our charter was scheduled to come pick us up.

The rehearsal that afternoon went off without a hitch. Yes, some people thought it was odd that Paul did not attend the rehearsal. And yes, some people commented, under their breath, on his absence from the rehearsal buffet. But most guests had been soaking up too much sun and fancy drinks with tiny umbrellas, to have both eyes open by supper time.

After the buffet, Bridgit threw a major hissy fit when she couldn't find enough sober people to play charades. In a huff she retired to her cottage. Peace returned to the island.

I'm really good at finding the perfect 'people watching spot' at any bar. That's how I saw Dean, Bridgit's father, get drunk while blithely trying to charm Lacey, one of Paul's sisters. I watched Lacey and July, her twin, fight over Derrick, the best man. Derrick however, wandered off with Georgeanna, one of Bridgit's aunts, while Paula, Bridgit's mother flirted shamelessly with Jason, Paul's father.

I watched Doreen, Paul's mother, excuse herself early after sending not-so- subtle messages to Timothy, one of the groomsmen. Timothy had blushed furiously but followed her dutifully. I watched Ray, one of Paul's uncles, dance with Jane, one of the bridesmaids. I couldn't help but chuckle when she tried to keep him from sloppily groping her firm behind by kneeing him. But Ray was just sober enough to deflect those moves. He did learn later that Josephine, one of Bridgit's cousins, had much better aim.

I watched when Derrick and Georgeanna came back. He looked the more satisfied of the two. However, Georgeanna delighted her husband Vern when she dragged him away to their room.

And yes, I watched while Dillon, Bridgit's six-year-old brother and Colin, her five-year-old cousin, very quietly sampled every last tidbit on the dessert table. And cringed when they gave it all back. I watched Grandpa Joe fall asleep on the beach to the sultry toned from the steel pan band, and just had to laugh when he startled and lost his teeth in the sand as soon as the DJ took over.

I and the rest of the party, listened to Sally, Joe's hard-of-hearing wife trying to be discreet while she shared all the family secrets with Audrey, Paul's grandmother. When Sally happily rediscovered her cake, Audrey excused herself and tried to talk one of the waiters into escorting her to her room.

The next morning, soon after daybreak, the full force of hurricane Bridgit was felt all over the island. Yes, the bower had been set up on the beach. No, it did not have a plethora or turquoise-tipped white roses but plenty of fuchsia bougainvillea blossoms. Yes, the seventy-odd chairs had been set out and most were covered. No, not in the cream-colored silk but in white cotton. Yes, the cake had three tiers, but was not made with blueberry swirl red velvet cake covered in marzipan but was a vanilla sheet cake with royal icing. Yes, of course, the champagne was the wrong brand. And no, there would not be a double swan ice sculpture on the head table. The event planner didn't bother telling Bridgit that there would not be a head table or that the photograper was stuck on another island. One, or rather, four, battles at a time.

The hairdresser, who had worked so hard the day before to get Bridgit's hair just the way the bride wanted it, was not able, according to Bridgit, to replicate her masterpiece. And, of course, her dress had shrunk.

The ceremony was scheduled for two o'clock. By two twenty even the most die-heart guest had left the uncomfortable cotton covered chairs, the ever increasing in strength wind, the punishing sand and the blistering sun to find refuge in one of the lounges.

Finally, a little more than two hours behind schedule, most of the seventy or so guests, well in their cups by now, responded to the DJ's probably wrong version of the wedding march, and stumbled back to their seats. Dean, who had been sober two hours ago was dragged by Bridgit through the hot sand to the flower denuded, quite lop-sided bower, where three bridesmaids cowered, clutching their billowing skirts. And three groomsmen tried to be nonchalant while examining the dirt under their fingernails.

Even to the more than sloshed family members and the odd friend, something seemed amiss. Having reached the windblown padre, Bridgit looked around. Irritated, she scanned the beach, the churning surf, the guests, the veranda, even the roof and finally asked.

"Where is he?"

"Who, prinshesh?" Dean looked confused.

"The groom! This is my wedding, where is the groom?"

The guests looked at each other and quickly looked away, lest they burst out laughing. Though the odd snigger, snort and giggle could not be avoided.

It was just forty minutes later that the real hurricane Bridgit hit the island. While the lot of us, minus Georgeanna and Vern, spent the next three days in the basement of the main house, fortified with every bottle from all three bars and all of the wedding food - the vanilla cake with royal icing was delicious - we discussed and debated at length and came to the conclusion that nobody had seen Paul board the plane.

Those three days were not totally wasted. Many relationships were broken, new ones formed and eventually rethought.

Two weeks later Paul returned to work after his "honeymoon" He admitted, sheepishly, to have been a coward. "But." he beamed. "I finally convinced Jim to move in with me."