Bride & Groom

to the bookstore was a lot more fun with Steve than it would’ve been without him, and it gave us the chance to talk about Ceci’s offer. As I expected, he had to think through every aspect of it.
    “Did you discuss costs with Ceci?” he asked. For once, he was driving my new Blazer, a vehicle he objected to because of its source. Enzio Guarini had gotten me a good deal on it. Steve, who wanted nothing to do with my Mob-boss dog-training client, had decided that the car must therefore have been stolen. The conviction was ridiculous and atypical of Steve, who was almost always logical.
    “No. There’s nothing to discuss, is there? We’d want a tent, and Ceci obviously shouldn’t pay for that. Otherwise, the costs would be the same as they’d be at some historic house or anywhere else, wouldn’t they?”
    “Cleaning up afterward?”
    “I hadn’t thought of that. But that wouldn’t be Ceci’s responsibility, either.”
    “What about the stress on Althea?”
    “For someone in her nineties, Althea is apparently in decent shape. Except for her eyesight, of course. And she uses a wheelchair because of mobility problems. But there’s nothing wrong with her general health. Heart and lungs and so on. Althea looks frail, and she rests a lot, but I don’t think the excitement would do her any harm. And Ceci just had a checkup. According to her, the doctor said that she could pass for thirty. That’s probably an exaggeration. Well, knowing Ceci, it is an exaggeration. But she thrives on activity. And she has more common sense than you might imagine. If she couldn’t manage a wedding, she wouldn’t have offered. And, Steve, her house is so beautiful! You’ll love it, too. It’s big. So is the yard. It slopes down pretty sharply in back, but the part right next to the house is level. Or maybe the tent should go in front of the house. If the weather is good, we could get married outdoors on the terrace in the back, and then have the reception inside and in the tent, and outdoors, too. And the neighborhood would be perfect.”
    Ceci’s house was a big white colonial in Newton, a suburb just west of Boston. She lived on a hill in a charming area with winding streets and, remarkably, gas streetlights.
    Looking horribly serious, as if he intended to decline, Steve said, "You’re the closest they have to a relative. They really think of you as their niece. Is this what you want?”
    “Yes. Don’t you?”
    “Me? I think it’d be great. Now all we need is someone to marry us. I’ve been wondering. What would you think about Althea?”
    “Althea?” I asked casually, thinking, Yes, yes, yes! Althea! And not my father!
    “You might not know, but it’s legal. She could a get a special permit, good for one day.”
    “Oh,” I said innocently, “is that right?”
    “Yeah. I’d like it. Althea is a great lady. If it’d be okay with you.”
    “It would be wonderful.”
    “Good.”
    So, we agreed to offer our hands in marriage to Althea Battlefield. We felt confident that she’d accept. I silently vowed to delegate to Gabrielle the task of informing Buck that his only role in the wedding would be as father of the bride. Hurrah!
    I gloated for the remainder of the ride to the bookstore, which belonged to a national chain and was located in a distant suburb that I’ll leave unnamed lest the store or the chain take offense and never again order 101 Ways to Cook Liver or any other book I may ever write. Not that the store was exactly promoting my current book with unbridled enthusiasm. Not a single copy was displayed in the window. Mac’s books weren’t there, either. As I was wondering aloud whether I had the date wrong, however, Steve spotted a sheet of white computer paper taped to the door. Printed in felt marker on the piece of paper were Mac’s name and mine, together with the titles of our books and a bald “7:00.”
    “Don’t let stardom go to your head,” Steve said.
    Inside, the store was bright, cheerful, and so gigantic that Steve, Kimi, and I had to wander around for a while before we happened on a podium that faced three rows of folding chairs with three chairs per row. The podium sat on a table that also held piles of 101 Ways to Cook Liver and Ask Dr. Mac. As we were about to greet Mac, Judith, and Uli, who stood nearby, an angry-looking blond man bustled up to me and said, “I’m sorry, but dogs aren’t allowed.” He pointed to Uli. “That one’s an exception.”
    Kimi’s