Page 92 of Fathers of the Bride
“Daddy—”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. We’ve passed the point of scenes.”
She gave me a dubious look.
“We have,” I promised, hoping it was true.
* * *
The next week was a whirlwind.I finalized the details for the catering with Dermont Dilroy, discovered that Lucas was an ordained Internet-minister and arranged for him to perform the ceremony, rented a classic car for the kids to leave the reception in—a 1964 Lincoln Convertible with suicide doors—then got obsessed with the tragedy of suicide doors, cancelled it, and ordered a 1968 Mercedes 280 convertible. Avery, at least, will love it.
And… I interviewed the very last eighties cover band on my list. The good ones had not been available. The bad ones were very, very bad.
That was quite an experience. After a few phone calls, I was instructed to come on up and meet the band in person and see a set list. They lived in Laurel Canyon so it was very short drive. It was one of those boxy houses attached to the side of a hill. As I walked up to the front door, I was sure I’d seen it before. There might have been a famous murder here or maybe it had been on a television show—or it might be both, I really couldn’t be sure.
I tried not to worry about it as I rang the bell. Then, I waited so long I almost rang the bell again. Surprisingly, Stevie Nicks answered. I mean, I didn’t think it was reallytheStevie Nicks, but she looked enough like her that I said, “Oh my God, you look just like—”
“Do not say her name. Do not ever say her freaking name.” She squinted, taking a good look at me. “You’re the Happy Homo, aren’t you?”
Clearing my throat, I admitted, “I used to be the host ofThe Happy Home. Miles Kettering-Lane. I’m here to talk about—”
“Damn! I loved that show! I used to have every season on videotape.”
“DVD,” I said. Yes, there was a season or two on VHS, but noteveryseason.
“That, yeah. Of course, I don’t cook or decorate or craft—I mean, if you put a glue gun in my hand I’d probably just kill someone with it. But, God, I love queens.”
I smiled at that, though honestly, I thought my face would break. I might have turned around and left right then, but I really needed a band.
“Guys, look who’s here! The Happy Homo.” Behind her was a large living room with huge windows looking out at the canyon. Scattered across a couple of sofas was her ragged, geriatric band. They looked like they’d been stoned since 1976.
An attractive, curly haired man in his sixties stepped forward. “Hey man, I’m Lindsey Bickingham. Like, uh, welcome.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then I turned to the woman who was not Stevie Nicks, and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Evie. Evie Hicks.”
“Okay.”
Seriously? That was her name?
“Yeah, man,” Lindsey said, then scrambled through a pile of papers on a side table. “I got your set list somewhere.”
Evie ignored him and said, “The bride will walk down the aisle to ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ It’s amazing, man.”
“Um, no, we have a string quartet coming. The bride will walk down the aisle to Pachelbel.”
“Oh God! I’m going to puke,” Evie said. “Pachelbel!”
“Here it is,” Lindsey said, handing me a crumbled, coffee-stained list. To Lindsey, I said, “I don’t think ‘Stairway to Heaven’ is appropriate.”
“Don’t worry, man,” Lindsey said. “By then she’ll be so slammed no one will recognize the lyrics.”
“Did you just tell me your lead singer is going to be drunk at my daughter’s wedding?”
“And high. Man, she sucks if she’s sober.”
“All right. Also, I thought you were an eighties cover band. These songs are from like the seventies. I was thinking more like “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and “I Want to Dance with Somebody,” and maybe a little Wham!”
