Page 87 of This Is How It Started
I rush to the backyard, where I find Shana casually strolling through the party tent. “Mom, what are you doing?”
“You should switch that centerpiece with that one.” She points. “The colors of the flowers go better with the tablecloth.”
They’re all the same, so I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. But to appease her—and God willing, get her to leave—I switch them. And damned if it doesn’t look better. How does she do that?
“Mom, you haven’t answered my question.”
She strolls over to the pool and gazes into the water at the glass balls that look like bubbles. “I told you they were in the attic. I like what you did with them. Very festive.”
“Mom!”
“What? A mother can’t visit her child every once in a while? You do live here, no? Plus, I wanted to see this wedding you’ve been so excited about.”
I don’t even...there are no words, so I say the ones I’m certain will penetrate. “Brooke is here.”
“I assumed that. She lives here too, no? And you are hosting this wedding together, yes?”
“We’re not hosting. This is our job. This is how we make money.” I don’t know why I’m quibbling over “hosting” when there are bigger fish to fry, like what the fuck is she doing here in the middle of an event? Or at all. But her la-di-da attitude galls me.
“I understand that. And if you need to work, don’t mind me. I can entertain myself.” She starts walking toward the guest cottage.
“Mom,” I say through gritted teeth, afraid of making a scene. “You can’t go in there. And guests are due to arrive any minute.”
She shoos me with her hands. “Then you best get going.” She eyes my dirty sweats again. “And, Rachel, put on something more appropriate. Oh, how I do love a good wedding.”
I catch up with her and pull on her arm. “That’s the thing, Mom, the bride didn’t invite you.”
She stares me down like she used to when I was thirteen and going through a rebellious stage. “I’m sure, Rachel, there is room for one more.”
I throw up my arms in defeat and pray that she stays out of trouble while I rush off to change my clothes.
At the last minute I decide a quick shower is imperative if I plan to get within a few feet of anyone, and leave Josie in charge. By the time I make it to the front yard, the ceremony is in full swing. But Mommie Dearest is nowhere in sight. I hike down to the valet station where her car is still parked. Unless she took an Uber home, she’s still here somewhere. But I don’t have time to find her. Not now. So I do the best thing I know how. I call for reinforcements.
“HELP!” I tap in a text to Adam. “Mom’s crashed the wedding. Come get her before I call the cops. Remember, you’re her favorite. You owe this to both of us.”
The officiant appears to be wrapping up the story of how the bride and groom met and seems to be moving into the vows section of the program. Time for me to motor to the backyard and get the trains running on party mode.
That’s where I find my mother. She’s behind the bar, helping the bartenders pour flutes of champagne for the pre-dinner toast. I want to throttle her. Instead, I slip into the kitchen to give Brooke and the staff the ten-minute warning sign that the ceremony will be wrapping up soon.
“Hey, do you have a minute?” I ask Brooke.
“Just a minute, but yeah, what’s up?”
I beckon her to follow me to the dining room, out of earshot of the others. “I don’t want to freak you out, but my mom’s here. She just showed up and has taken it upon herself to help the bartenders. I’m really sorry, Brooke.”
“What are you sorry about? We could use the extra hands. When she’s done with the bartenders, tell her to get her ass in the kitchen.”
My mouth falls open, and I quickly close it. “Uh...okay...if you’re sure.” I have no intention of getting my mother anywhere near Brooke. But I’ve at least done my due diligence. The two women are on their own now. I’m out of it.
I pop out to the front again. The ceremony is still going. The bride and groom have written their own vows and are reciting them to each other. It’s lovely and painful for me at the same time. Josie’s sitting in the front row on the bride’s side in case there’s a dress malfunction. I catch her eye and motion that I’ll be in back.
There’s nothing I can think of to do right now other than to wait to lead guests to the welcome table, where they can sign the wedding book and get their seating assignment. I’m exhausted and elated, too. Other than Mom, everything so far has gone smoothly.
I take a welcome break on the swing. The chains, thanks to Josie, have been wrapped with leftover garland. It’s so whimsical and pretty that I think we should keep the swing like this all the time. I try to remember if Ran Gately did it for my wedding but have no memory of the swing. I think about Campbell and his wedding—the one he was supposed to have next weekend—and a flood of guilt washes over me. I was dreading that wedding to the point of coming up with an excuse to leave town on the day of the event. I know it’s selfish and even mean. And that there’s no good reason for it. I made my choice more than seven years ago to love somebody else.
I see Josie out of the corner of my eye. She’s giving me a thumbs-up and mouthing, “It’s over.”
I race to the front yard again, wait for the bride and groom and their families to go off with the photographer for pictures before herding the guests to the backyard. Twenty minutes later, the guests are mingling, cocktails in hand, while the quartet plays a jazzy version of “Stand by Me.”
