Page 31 of A Week To Wed
And he sounds like he’s on death’s door. “What’s wrong?”
“In bed. Sinus infection. I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to attend the wedding.”
In a moment I’m not proud of, I say, “Can’t you pop some antibiotics? The wedding is in … oh god, six hours.”
He apologizes and gives me the names of a few others I can call.
“Shit,” I mutter, but I’m not panicking. There’s no reason to panic. I’m just chilling at zero hour and making phone calls.
None of those other officiants can change their plans. One insists on pre-marital counseling, and we do not have time for that.
“Hattie,” I say, biting my lip. “Where’s that funeral that Pastor Joan is doing today?”
Hattie cocks her head and thinks. “Hm. Maybe it was in Atkins? Or no, what’s that other church she works at, the one in Churchill, maybe?”
I breathe and smile calmly as I can until Hattie finishes.
Barely able to enjoy this moment in the mirror because of the incoming panic attack roiling in my belly, I raise my voice so everyone in the salon can hear me.
“I don’t suppose anyone here has Pastor Joan’s cell number?”
* * *
This is going to work.
The officiant is the most crucial part of this ceremony, and there’s no faking it. Not with the executors of old man Hall’s will hanging around to ensure the ridiculous marriage clause is carried out.
I’d even be okay with doing a “pretend” wedding for the party that’s already been planned and following up later at the magistrate’s office to seal the deal. But that’s just not possible with the entire ranch hanging in the balance.
What kind of a lunatic puts a condition like this on his son? I’m so glad I never met my late father-in-law, because he sounds like a piece of work.
None of my years of planning prepared me for what I’m about to do.
As I sit in my car outside Hattie’s Hair Cuttery, I dial Pastor Joan.
She answers after two rings, a very hesitant and aged, “Hello?”
Now’s my chance. I either have this wedding shit handled, or I don’t.
I take a deep breath and work my magic as best as I know how. And I lay on the Texas accent extra thick because why not?
“I am so sorry to bother you, Reverend, but this is Maisy Millikin, soon-to-be wife of Lincoln Hall. You may know him from—“
“Yes, of course. Everyone knows Lincoln. Aren’t you supposed to be marrying him today?” Her voice is frail and hushed, and it sounds like she’s stepping outside a busy room with many people.
“Thank you for coming,” she murmurs to someone there. “The family thanks you for your condolences.”
She’s at the funeral wake. I’m going to hell for troubling a woman of the cloth in the middle of a wake.
“I am so, so very sorry for this….” I start again.
“Yes, dear, you mentioned how sorry you were. Is there something I can help you with?”
Here goes nothing. “The wedding is in trouble. Our pastor, who was supposed to do it, came down with a sinus infection and cannot make it. I have tried everyone anyone can think of, and I was wondering if there was any way you could possibly make it here by six p.m.? I could do seven or eight p.m. if that works better for you.”
I hold my breath, not feeling particularly hopeful. As it is, pushing a wedding back for a couple of hours will cost money. For the caterer, the band, the photographer — literally everyone involved. And god knows if the guests are going to wait around that long. I don’t know what else to do, though.
“My dear, I’m afraid that’s not possible. After I leave here, I have to go to Churchill, set up the altar, and practice my sermon.”
