School of Fortune (5 page)

Thayne walked swiftly over. She was dismayed to find Rosimund wearing a tiara with her red pantsuit. “Yes, Rosimund? What can I do for you?”

“I'm afraid this seat is unacceptable. I'm so close to the extension that I'll have a terrible crick in my neck by the end of the ceremony.”

“Would you rather sit halfway back in the auditorium?”

Rosimund pointed to the first tier of boxes, where visiting Windsors or Ross Perot would be placed. “I think that would be a suitable location for the mother of the groom.”

“I'm so sorry. I've put a brass quintet there.”

“Is that so? Who are those five ruffians with tubas on the edge of the stage?”

“One of the quintets. There are two.”

A tremendous crash nearly caused Thayne to drop her bullhorn. A chorus riser had just collapsed, flooding the percussion section with sopranos. The orchestra manager hurtled onstage to tell Thayne that, due to union rules, the rear of the stage had to be evacuated while the risers were repaired. Everything should be back in position in fifteen minutes. “You don't understand,” Thayne screamed into her bullhorn although the man was not an arm's length away. “We're already thirteen minutes late. The entire bridal party must be at Texas Stadium in one hour for a nationally televised broadcast on E!”

The manager merely shrugged: no one argued with the union.

Outside in the lobby, Cedric had finally rousted the groomsmen from the lavatory and herded them upstairs. He was pairing them off with the bridesmaids according to a list Wyeth had bequeathed to him. Kimberly's euphoria at being first was deflated by the discovery that she would walk up the aisle with the homeliest guy in sight, a middle-aged turkey with a mangy mustache and potbelly. His name was Woody and he appeared to be completely, disgustingly, sober.

“And what might be your relation to the groom?” she asked.

Woody gazed with pity at Kimberly's cleavage. She had freakishly large breasts for a woman of her height. “I'm Lance's physical therapist,” he replied.

“So you've seen him naked, you lucky shit.”

He pretended not to have heard. “I haven't seen so many French twists since
Gigi.”

Kimberly looked desperately around the lobby. Ginny, now tenth instead of first in line, would process down the aisle alone since Rosimund had provided only nine groomsmen. Too late Kimberly realized that entering last, in solitary splendor, would have been infinitely better than walking down the aisle with Woody. Worse, the eight other couples were chatting comfortably arm in arm. Half of them looked like they were already going steady. Kimberly felt like killing someone. “Excuse me, Woody.”

She went to the ladies' room and finished every last drop of vodka in her flask.

T
he worse the rehearsal, the better the performance:
if that axiom were true, Pippa's wedding would be flawless. Despite her bullhorn, Thayne was nearly hoarse by the time the chorus, symphony, bell choir, and brass quintets had regrouped following the collapse of the risers. When the musicians were finally tuned and ready to go, she repaired to the vestibule with Rosimund. Sight of the two matriarchs marching down the aisle toward them struck terror in the bridesmaids. Within seconds drunken strumpets became demure damsels standing in a line. The groomsmen apishly followed suit.

Thayne paused to sniff the air in the lobby: was that beer or her perfume? Madame Ricci had advised her it would smell different on other people, and she was absolutely right. Thayne's frown deepened as she observed the indecently exposed flesh on parade.

Rosimund didn't help by commenting, “I feel as if we're in a bordello.”

“At least they're not wearing crowns with pants. Are we ready to process, everyone?” “Yes, Mrs. Walker!”

Thayne sensed something odd about the young couples. They seemed to be propping each other up. Aha: the high heels. The girls hadn't eaten since lunch and were probably feeling dizzy. “We'll be at dinner in no time,” she announced. “Where is Pippa?”

“She's getting her train reattached,” Kimberly replied. “One of the harness straps broke.”

“Are we ready to begin back there?” Cedric's voice boomed from the front of the auditorium.

“Yes,” Thayne shouted back through her bullhorn. The music began. “Tommy! Come here.”

Tommy, the ring bearer, was a professional child actor. After scouring every possible cousin in the Walker family and failing to find a boy four feet tall with curly blond hair and excellent deportment, Wyeth McCoy had called a talent agency in Hollywood. Although he looked six years old, Tommy was actually thirteen. He had been smoking heavily for the last few years in order to stunt his growth. Thayne told everyone he was a third cousin once removed.

“Where is the groom's ring?” Thayne cried in horror, spying only one band on the pillow.

“It got lost.” Bored with all the waiting, Tommy had tried it on. That's when it had slipped through his fingers and rolled away.

Rosimund clucked in disappointment. A Henderson would have chopped off his right arm before letting go of that ring. “Wherever did you find this boy, Thayne?”

Thayne knelt beside the lad. Was she hallucinating or had he been smoking? “Where did this accident happen, Tommy?”

“Somewhere around there.” He pointed.

“Where is the f-ing mother of the groom?” Cedric fulminated from the other end of the hall. “You're fifteen seconds behind the music.”

Rosimund clamped her hands over little Arabella's ears. “Such language! Please tell that man to control himself!”

“Cedric, we've lost a ring,” Thayne called.

“I don't care if you've lost your f-ing cat, send the mother of the groom out NOW.” Cedric instructed the orchestra to start over again.

Rosimund rehearsed walking from the rear of the auditorium to her front row seat on the groom's side while gazing beatifically at her son, Lance, who was waiting onstage with the Reverend Alcott. It was a very heady experience. Then Cedric shouted, “Thayne! Get your ass on the carpet! What's taking so g-damn long?”

“Is that man insane?” Rosimund fumed to her husband. “This is a holy occasion.”

Lyman put aside his
Robb Report
devoted to motorcycles. “He's working with raw recruits, darlin'. Cut him a little slack.” Lyman returned to the magazine.

Thayne now paraded up the aisle and seated herself in the front row, bride's side. She was breathless with excitement and had to restrain herself not to ask Cedric if she could try that once again, just to be sure she got it right.

“Ring bearer! Where's the little prick?” Cedric barked into his bullhorn.

“I just fired him,” Thayne called upstage.

A voice across the aisle intoned, “You fired your own third cousin once removed?”

“Yes, Rosimund, I did.” Thayne returned her attention to Cedric. “Let's keep moving.”

“Pages! Flower girl! Where's the flower girl?”

Back in the lobby, Kimberly roughly pushed little Arabella into the auditorium. Besides being saddled with the homeliest groomsman, Kimberly had just discovered that the cutest girl on earth, Lance's wee sister, would be preceding her up the aisle. Rosimund had been rehearsing Arabella for months because this wedding was, in a sense, her daughter's debut in society. Arabella instinctively rose to the occasion; when she dug her little gloved hand into her basket of rose petals and strewed them in the air, she could have stolen the show from Judy Garland, Shirley Temple, and the Olsen twins combined.

“Bridesmaid one! Come out!”

Kimberly could only smile, pretend her escort was George Clooney, and concentrate on walking toward the stage at a steady twenty-two inches per second.

“Are you intoxicated?” Woody whispered as they were halfway into the hall. “You seem to be having difficulty keeping to the middle of the aisle.”

“Shut up, you disgusting troll.”

“I detect hostility in your voice, Kimberly. Are you unhappy with some element of your life?”

“Silence,” shouted Cedric from a distance. “You're not at the f-ing movies.”

“Where did you find that chimney sweep?” Rosimund asked Thayne in a stage whisper heard above the entire Dallas Symphony. “If he continues using such foul language, I will have no choice but to take Arabella home.”

“Cedric, please!” Thayne rasped. “Do dukes and duchesses talk like this?”

“Where do you think I learned it, madam? Attention! Rear of the hall! Where is the next pair of attendants?”

That would be Cora, currently sharing her first kiss with partner Denny. They finally separated when Cedric threatened to perform an instant clitorectomy with the Leatherman in his pocket.

“Thayne, really,” Rosimund reprimanded. “You must dismiss that beast at once.”

“And replace him with?”

“We know several generals at Fort Hood. Any or all could be here within the hour.”

“This is Dallas, not Baghdad. Continue, Cedric. Please temper your language.”

Cedric continued to issue marching orders amid avalanches of shocking profanity. Unable to stand it anymore, the Reverend Alcott finally tore the bullhorn from Cedric's mouth and stomped it to an electronic pancake, to show Cedric what would happen to him in the afterlife if he continued using F, G, and C words. He then held Cedric in a viselike grip and commenced quite a long private prayer that was broadcast throughout the auditorium thanks to the microphone on his lapel.

Cedric finally broke loose. He was pleased to see that the entire bridal party had arrived during the Reverend Alcott's tête-à-tête with the Almighty. “Pippa! Up the aisle!” he shouted.

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?”