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help you with your little problems,” said Dorothy, graciously complacent. “I’ll just make a few calls. I’m sure I can find someone who’ll make a special effort for me.”
I thanked her effusively, all the while thinking Scottsdale, any day now she’s moving to Scottsdale. Then I pressed on with my telethon, calling to confirm with the photography studio, the videographer, the judge, the jazz trio for the ceremony and the sound man for the dancing, and the stylist who would do the bride’s hair and touch up the bridesmaids’ faces—including mine.
The knowledge that I’d soon be slinking around in a bridesmaid’s gown added a certain personal frisson to my professional frenzy. So after Eddie left for the day, I squeezed in a call to Lily at the library, just to calm my own jitters.
“That pink satin’s so clingy, it’s not going to cover even one sin, let alone a multitude,” I fretted to her. “What if my invisible bra comes unstuck?”
“Just reach down your cleavage and pull it out,” she suggested. “You can throw it to the crowd when the bride tosses her bouquet. Start a whole new tradition!”
“Lily.”
“You’ll be fine. Want me to come over Saturday and help you get dressed?”
“Would you really? You’re my hero.”
“That’s what they all say. Listen, before I forget, you’re still coming for Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” I always spent Christmas in Boise with my mother, and she always traveled to either my home or my brother’s for Thanksgiving. This year she’d be at Tim’s house in Illinois, so I could eat turkey with Lily and her boys.
“How are you and Aaron doing? I was wondering if he’d like to come, too.”
That gave me pause. “It’s nice of you to offer, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, it might seem kind of like bringing him home to meet the folks, or something.” I leaned back in my chair and stared out the window. The silver expanse of Lake Union offered no guidance on the matter.
“The reason I ask,” said Lily in a too-neutral voice, “is that I’ll have a friend there myself.”
“You mean a friend of the male persuasion? Lily, I didn’t even know you were dating anyone! Who is he?”
“I don’t want to talk about it yet,” she said. “It might jinx things. Besides, he might not even make it that night. But think it over about Aaron, OK?”
I promised I would, then got back to work myself—nailing down minor assignments like tending Elizabeth’s guest book, which Valerie Duncan had offered to do. I could have asked her to distribute the corsages and boutonnieres, too, once Boris delivered them, but I couldn’t resist just a tiny bit of matchmaking: I assigned flower duty to Corinne. Maybe if Boris saw her all dolled up in pink, he’d have second thoughts? I only remembered the wife in St. Petersburg after I’d made the calls. Oh, well.
Some event services were already provided for; we’d use EMP employees to check coats, stash gifts, and bus tables in the restaurant and lounge. But because it was my first wedding at this venue, I tried to double- and even triple-check every little detail. Except for one detail—inviting Aaron for Thanksgiving. I mulled that one over all Wednesday evening, coming to the firm, decisive conclusion that I’d wait until I saw him in person at the rehearsal, and then wing it from there.
On Thursday I started making the really dicey phone calls, not to any of the vendors but to the guests who had written in their children’s names on their RSVP cards. This was an adults-only affair—a fact that certain doting parents had trouble understanding.
“But little Mason won’t be any trouble,” one mother told me.
“It’s not a question of his behavior,” I said easily, having rehearsed my script. “It’s just part of our contract with the Experience Music Project. They’re giving us special access to all the exhibits, and we’ve agreed to have no guests under eighteen.”
Which was true enough, though the EMP would have been flexible on the issue if we’d pressed it. The strict decree had come from the bride, whose thoughtful rationale had included the phrase “no screaming brats underfoot.” But Mason’s mother didn’t need to know that. She also didn’t need to know that she and Mason’s dad had barely missed the cut for the A-list. Two hundred guests would actually attend the ceremony in the EMP’s small but sophisticated theater, and four hundred more would come an hour later for the reception.
And what a reception it