by Amanda Brown
As the orchestra surged into Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” all eyes turned toward the rear of the auditorium. Pippa and her father, Robert, walked slowly up the aisle, trailed by Pippa’s just-repaired wedding train. It was heavy enough when she was pulling it on a marble floor; pulling it along a carpet was nearly impossible. Both Pippa and her father were leaning forward, straining like two beasts of burden, as the train clung to the carpet every inch of the way. Every few steps they could hear a little rip as the threads binding the train to Pippa’s custom-designed titanium harness broke. Sensing that his daughter was on the verge of panic, Robert regaled her with a long-winded joke about a priest, a rabbi, and an ayatollah on the golf course.
Pippa didn’t hear a word her father was saying. Her eyes were glued to Lance, who was watching in adoration as she neared. Robert was just about at the punch line of the golf joke when he and Pippa arrived at their destination. The music stopped so he reluctantly stopped as well.
Reading from a script, the Reverend Alcott cleared his sore throat and quietly began. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together to witness the union of two young hearts and two great families, the Walkers and the Hendersons. It is a historic, joyful occasion.”
“Excuse me,” Thayne interrupted. “You forgot ‘unforgettable.’“
The Reverend Alcott squinted at his script. “That’s been crossed out.”
“What? Who?”
“I did,” Cedric replied. “The word is inappropriate.”
“Put the word back in,” Thayne ordered. “Cedric, have you been tampering with my ceremony?”
Rosimund leaned over the aisle. The Walker family crest, so crassly embroidered in gold on Pippa’s train, was giving her a violent headache. “Could we move on? Four hundred guests are waiting for us in Texas Stadium. I’m sure that you and your hired man can sort out this ‘script’ later.”
The Reverend Alcott continued, “Who gives this woman to be married?”
Flustered, his mind still on the golf joke, Robert replied, “I do.”
Thayne leaped to her feet. “No no no, Robert! Please concentrate! One more time!”
The Reverend Alcott repeated the question. Robert gathered his wits for five full seconds before replying, “Thayne Ardelle Beatrice Brattlewood Priscilla Inge Walker and I do.”
Thayne went nearly purple. “No no no, Robert! You forgot ‘Tuttle’! One more time! Inge Tuttle Walker!”
The Reverend Alcott repeated the question. There was an even longer silence before Robert replied, “Thayne Ardelle Beatrice Brattlewood Priscilla Ingle Tuttle Walker and I do.”
“Inge, not Ingle!”
“Inge Tuttle Walker and I do,” Robert said. “That’s the last time I’m saying it.”
“That’s more like it,” Thayne beamed.
The Reverend Alcott was only a few sentences into a reading from the Song of Solomon when Chardonnay swooned. On the way down, she grabbed the elbow of the violinist sitting behind her. Chardonnay’s head and the violinist’s Guarneri del Gesù hit the floor at about the same time. The violinist went ballistic. “Will you calm down,” Thayne shouted. “It isn’t the end of the world. I’ll buy you another one.”
“You sure as hell will,” the violinist screamed back as four people tried to restrain him. “Hope you’ve got a spare three f-ing million!”
Again Rosimund leaned over the aisle. “Thayne, this is the last time I’m going to ask you to control the language in this pigsty.”
Arabella began to whimper, but not from the four-letter words she heard every day in kindergarten. “What happened to that lady, Mother? Is she dead?”
“She’s had a little too much excitement, that’s all. Come here, darling. Sit with me.”
Arabella had no intention of leaving the stage. Some corner of her brain knew that she was one step away from being the star of the show. “I’ll be okay.”
Rosimund settled back into her seat. “If only that ring bearer had one ounce of Arabella’s gumption,” she commented loudly to her husband.
After Chardonnay and the violinist were removed from the auditorium, the Reverend Alcott wisely decided to stop reading from the script. It was an indecipherable mess of overstrikes and insertions. “After the Scriptures, there will be a choral interlude.” The choir sang “How Lovely Are Thy Dwellings” from the Brahms Requiem. “Then I will read a love poem by Tennyson.” Fortunately Cedric had not edited any of that. “After which the orchestra will play the overture to Romeo and Juliet by Tchaikovsky.”
“Isn’t that a bit heavy?” Rosimund asked across the aisle.
“Your son requested it,” Thayne shot back.
“I will then read a brief history of the Walker family, followed by a brief history of the Henderson family. I assure you that each reading will be exactly the same word length,” the Reverend took care to add. “Then the brass quintets will play the Royal Fireworks Music by Handel.”
Thayne noticed that three bridesmaids looked fairly chartreuse. “We’ll skip that for now.”
“Next the bride and groom will exchange vows. Lance, please join me here.” Every distaff heart in the auditorium broke as Lance stepped forward and mumbled his wedding vows with Pippa. Cedric stepped in for Tommy, the banished ring bearer. “Then I’ll say, ‘Mr. Henderson, you may kiss your wife, Ms. Walker.’“
Rosimund sprang to her feet. “Excuse me, Reverend Alcott! You do mean Mrs. Henderson, don’t you?”
He studied the script. “It says Ms. Walker.” In boldface italics, 20-point type.
Rosimund trained her sweetest, deadliest smile across the aisle. “I’m afraid this won’t do, Thayne. It is inconceivable that a woman fortunate enough to be marrying a Henderson would not take the family name.”
“I’ve told Pippa it’s all right, Mother,” Lance said quietly.
Deeply shocked, Rosimund sank into her seat. A moment later, everyone could see her dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “What about the grandchildren?” she moaned to her husband.
Once again the Reverend Alcott leaped into the breach. “When I say ‘kiss the bride, Lance,’ the bell choir will play ‘O Happy, Happy Day’ by John Williams. Let’s rehearse that, shall we?”
Upset at his mother’s tears, Lance could only muster a perfunctory kiss for Pippa as the bell choir chimed out a triumphant theme that sounded a little like Raiders of the Lost Ark. When the piece finally ended, Thayne stood up. “Lance, you’re going to have to do much better than that. Mr. Williams has composed twenty seconds of music for this climactic moment, at five thousand dollars per second I might add, and you’re expected to be kissing Pippa for the full count.”
“Mama, this is really embarrassing,” Pippa said. “Could we leave it until tomorrow?”
Stung, Thayne looked across the aisle. She felt Rosimund’s pain. “What’s gotten into everyone today?”
“I don’t know, dear,” came the hurt, muffled reply.
His voice on its last legs, the Reverend Alcott whispered, “The musicians will then join forces for the Hallelujah Chorus. The bridal party will follow Lance and Pippa out.” He looked at the pale couple. “I’d scram if I were you.”
Lance and Pippa nearly ran out of the auditorium, followed by their attendants. Pippa ditched her train in the lobby, then piled into the first limousine with Lance, who was already dialing Rosimund’s cell phone. Pippa waited until he had smoothed his mother’s ruffled feathers. “I’m so happy to see you,” she cried, plastering his face with kisses. “Where have you been?”
“Keeping the guys out of jail.” Lance buried his nose in Pippa’s neck. “Diorissimo?”
Lance had always been exceptional at identifying perfume. “It’s a custom Ricci blend. Ginny and I were looking for you today.”
“So I hear.”
“You haven’t introduced me to Woody.”
“He’s in the next car.”
“Did you two find a cummerbund?”
Lance put two fingers under her chin
and raised her face. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Absolutely. I’m insanely jealous.”
“Yes, we found a cummerbund.”
“I would have loved to help you shop.”
“And I would have loved to have you there. But I wasn’t about to risk the wrath of Thayne by removing you from scheduled events.” Lance kissed her. “Forgive me?”
Pippa’s smile lit up the back seat. “Always.”
Five
An hour before the Henderson Ball was to begin, seven hundred people had gathered outside Texas Stadium to watch guests arrive in their Bentleys, Aston Martins, and Hummer limousines. When it started to sprinkle, valets held umbrellas aloft, protecting the hair of Dallas from contact with ordinary rainwater. Crews from the local stations and E! recorded every step as women in glittery gowns and men in tuxedos traversed a red carpet into the stadium. The onlookers applauded almost nonstop. This was way more fun than rubbernecking at Oscar night because Dallas society women, unlike Hollywood actresses, did not believe that less was more, especially when it came to hair, jewels, makeup, sequins, ermine, and teeth.
Commandos in headsets kept the parade flowing evenly from vehicle to arena. Inside the stadium, guests wandered between four climate-controlled tents, one for each season, as they awaited the wedding party. Rosimund had borrowed the season idea after reading about a gala that the Emir of Kuwait had thrown for the Sultan of Brunei. In keeping with her Chinese numerologist’s reading that four was her lucky number, she planned to serve a four-course meal that included black and white truffles, delicate game meats, rare grains, four wines, and Veuve Clicquot instead of the gassier Cristal that Thayne preferred. The first tent, stark white, was a winter garden containing a veritable forest of bamboo trees as well as two gigantic Plexiglas enclosures, one housing a pair of pandas, the other a pair of Siberian snow leopards. While sipping cocktails, guests could marvel at the animals, eat Kumamoto oysters, and watch a laser light show. A gamelan orchestra from Java serenaded A-listers who had come to Dallas for the wedding of the century. Souvenir booklets informed all that the laser exhibition was visible from the moon; the big hit of the evening was a gigantic hologram of Lance and Rosimund hovering like benevolent deities one hundred feet above the stadium.
When she was finally en route from Meyerson Center, Rosimund phoned her majordomo. “Begin moving guests into the second tent.”
“Thank you, madam,” Harry replied. The chefs were going ballistic because dinner was one hour behind schedule. “Did rehearsal go well?”
“As well as could be expected of a three-ring circus.”
Within moments the word “dinner” began flashing over and over in the sky. Guests headed for the next tent. During their long wait to be fed something more substantial than oysters and finger sculptures, they had had ample time to study the seating charts situated throughout the bamboo forest. Everyone now poured toward their tables with a great sense of anticipation.
The decor of the second tent evoked springtime. Forty tables were set in soft blues and pinks; a brass cage ensconcing two mechanical lovebirds topped the floral centerpiece on each table. The birds chirped nonstop as Andre Rieu led the Johann Strauss Orchestra through a flurry of waltzes. Acres of sky-blue silk formed the canopy of the tent. Large fluffy clouds attached to invisible pulleys wafted overhead, occasionally showering those below with golden Stardust (edible, in case it hit the food). The air was fragrant with just enough lily of the valley, Rosimund’s favorite fragrance, to overwhelm Thayne’s signature perfume.
Harry managed to seat everyone moments before the bridal party arrived. The spotlight found Rosimund, hard to miss since she was not only first in, but also wearing fiery red and a two-pound tiara. A shaft of light followed her to the microphone at the head table. As she welcomed her guests, waiters in pale yellow tuxedos commenced pouring Champagne.
While the cooks in the service tent went even more ballistic at the delay, Rosimund read a five-page, single-spaced essay entitled “My Son Lance.” Her memoir shared significant moments such as his first solid food, his graduation at the top of his kindergarten class, his discovery of a football, his first barbecue, his eight trips to Europe with her, his fifteen full scholarships that they didn’t need, his first-round draft pick by the Cowboys. Rosimund closed with names she would prefer for her grandchildren: Henrianna and Hart. She raised her glass of now warm Veuve Clicquot. “Lance, I wish you as much joy with Pippa as you’ve had with me.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the guests.
“Thank you, Mother,” Lance dutifully replied. Under the table he squeezed Pippa’s hand. “She’s not too bad once you get to know her. You can leave that bottle right here,” he told the waiter refilling their glasses.
Pippa didn’t want to say anything, but her fiance had had plenty to drink already. Worse, just before the rehearsal, Lance had presented all his groomsmen with Tiffany flasks containing 150-proof bourbon. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked.
“Couldn’t be better. Why?”
“You don’t normally drink Champagne.” In such quantity.
“And I probably won’t for another twenty years. Ah. You’re worried it will impair my performance.” He smiled as Pippa blushed. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I have yet to discover anything that impairs my performance.”
From the other end of the table, sensing that her son was already telling Pippa things he would never tell her, Rosimund felt a stab of pain. She remedied the situation by asking Lance to dance with her.
Watching her future husband and mother-in-law waltz around the parquet floor as artificial clouds dusted them with gold, Pippa felt suddenly weary. She was no psychoanalyst, but Lance did seem overly attached to his mother. She wondered if she would ever be able to turn that tide around. Henrianna Henderson? Out of the question.
“May I have this dance?”
Anson Walker, Pippa’s beloved grandfather, took her hand. A legendary oilman and cattleman, Anson had decades of experience with petroleum, cows, and that other ruinous natural resource, Texan women. “You’re looking mighty serious tonight.”
“It’s all beginning to hit me, Grampy.”
“Perfectly normal. Don’t worry about Rosimund. About now she’s feeling like General Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn.”
Pippa smiled. “Are you calling me an Indian?”
“No, a little big horn.” Anson steered Pippa onto the dance floor. “Did your mother tell you she wore that same dress at her rehearsal dinner?”
Pippa was surprised. “No.”
“I wouldn’t think so. She was somewhat under the weather, too. Apparently the prospect of marrying my boy Robert was impossible to face without the help of two bottles of Champagne. You should have seen her on the dance floor. That poor girl was more liquid than solid. Grandma Walker almost called off the wedding. She was sure Robert was throwing himself away on a spineless wastrel. And look how that little lassie turned out. We’re all so proud of Thayne.”
“So am I,” Pippa said. “But I want to be an equal partner with my husband.”
“Lance is a good boy. With your help I’m sure he’ll outgrow his mother and become the man of the house.” Anson smiled at Pippa’s diamond choker. “I’m so glad you’re wearing that necklace, pumpkin. It was my wedding gift to your grandmother.”
“I’m honored to have it.” They danced a while in silence. Then Pippa asked, “Were you in love with Grandma at first sight?”
“We were special friends whose friendship caught fire.”
“Did it catch fire before or after you got married?”
“I’ll tell you a secret. It was ten years afterward.” Anson’s eyes grew misty as he remembered. “Your grandma was napping on the porch swing. It was late afternoon on a perfect summer day. She opened her eyes and saw me. A little smile overtook her face. In that moment I fell head over heels in love with her and stayed that way for the next forty-three years.”
“But
how did you survive the first ten?”
“We got to know and respect each other better. I always knew she was a fine woman. I always knew we were rowing the same boat.” Anson kissed Pippa’s forehead. “It will be the same for you.”
Pippa certainly hoped so. “Do you think I’m rushing into this, Grampa?”
“Of course not. You’ve known Lance for years. You have a good idea where he’s coming from. Lord knows you two talk enough together.”
Yes, Lance could chat all night long. That was one of his most endearing qualities. “Do you think I’m marrying on the rebound?”
Anson went quiet for a few turns around the floor. “I think it’s good that you had a romantic disappointment before marrying. Makes you appreciate the good apples more. Mistakes are our best teachers.”
“Andre was a mistake, all right.” Pippa just wasn’t sure what she had learned.
“I’m only sorry you gave him a year of your life, when you could have been in school.”
The year wasn’t entirely wasted. Pippa could speak a few words of Czech and she distinctly remembered the happy times. Both of them. “I’m not sure I want to stay in stage design,” she said.
“Then find something else you love. I do wish you’d go back to school and finish a degree. Education was the key to my success. If I hadn’t learned about agriculture and geology, I would have been useless with cows and oil.”
“Once this wedding’s over, I’m going to do something with my life, Grampa. Promise.”
“I know you’ve got it in you. Lance will be consumed with football so you’ll have plenty of time to study. All the money in the world won’t make you an adult. You’ve got to get there yourself. Just like your mama.”
Lance tapped Anson’s shoulder. He looked flushed. There was a gleam in his eye that Pippa had not seen before. “May I?” he asked.
“Well, well! Had enough of dancing with Rosimund?” Anson handed Pippa to her fiance. “Take care of my girl now.”
