Deborah Donnelly - Veiled Threats

W HY ON EARTH DO PEOPLE GET MARRIED ? A ND WHY , WHY DO I offer to help them do the deed? Why do I promise Elegant Weddings With An Original Flair, as it says on my business card, when I know damn well how many things can go wrong at once? Made in Heaven Wedding Design, Carnegie Kincaid, Proprietor. Tonight, the proprietor was ready to resign.

So far, on this rainy Sunday night in June, the florist's truck had had a flat, the groom's grandmother had had a fit, I was missing one waiter for the reception, and the four-year-old ring bearer had hidden the ring in her underpants. Twice. And now, moments before their procession down the aisle, one of the bridesmaids was sneezing. Explosive, rapid-fire, high-decibel sneezes. The other bridesmaids were smothering hysterical giggles while Diane, the bride, was developing a deer-caught-in-headlights stare. We were approaching meltdown.

The bride, the bridesmaids, the ring bearer and I were clustered outside the ballroom of Sercombe House, one of Seattle's Victorian mansions-for-rent. The mahogany doorway ahead of us framed a festive and expectant scene, with fluttering candle flames and masses of pale pink English roses, delivered dangerously late but lovely all the same. The string quartet played Haydnloudly, thank God. The judge winked at the groom. The guests beamed in anticipation. And Susie, a plump little blonde gone very red in the face, kept on sneezing.

I'm so sorry, she gasped. I don't know what aaahhh

Here! I shoved another handkerchief at her. It must be your bouquet. Are you allergic to flowers? Don't try to talk, just give it to me. Quick!

I examined the offending bouquet. English roses, stargazer lilies, stephanotis. No telling what was setting Susie off. I yanked the pink satin ribbon from around the stems, held back a spray of lilies, and pitched the rest of the bouquet in a nearby wastebasket. Nickie, take the ring away from Tiffany and give it to me.

Nickie Parry, the maid of honor and my next bride-to-be client, gave me the gleaming gold-and-black enamel band so that I could thread the ribbon through it and tie a big loopy bow.

Susie, you are now the ring bearer. I handed her the ring and bow, and we waited. Two more small sneezes a couple of sniffles blessed silence.

Excellent! I stooped to present the lilies to Tiffany. Here you go, Tiff, now you're the flower girl. It's a very special job. And Michelle, change places with Susie so she ends up close to the bride, OK?

Whatever. Michelle rolled her eyes and I imagined, not for the first time, strangling her with the bride's garter. She was a cousin of Diane's, in from New York, cadaverously thin and heavily sardonic. She'd made it clear that weddings, especially hick Seattle weddings, were a ridiculous bore, especially when it was suggested that she take out her nose ring for the occasion. Her boyfriend, a densely pierced and tattooed youth, obviously shared her opinions. As far as I was concerned, they deserved each other.

Michelle belched abruptly, and I guessed from the fumes that the bottle of champagne I'd brought to their dressing room earlier must have gone mostly down Miss Sophisticate's throat. I felt my back teeth grinding.

OK, everybody line up. Susie, are you all right now? Great. Yo u all look fabulous.

They did, too. Diane loathed what she called those pastel jobs with bows on the butts, and I agreedbaby-blue chiffon is best seen on babies. So I'd had long-skirted evening suits made up in black damask, with pearly white blouses underneath the peplum jackets. In effect, a lady's tuxedo. Every man ever born looks good in a tux, and so does every woman, if she gets the chance.

The Haydn wound up, and the processional, the Bach Cantata BWV 140, began. I sent little Tiffany and then the first two bridesmaids down the aisle, then the glassy-eyed Michelle, then Susie, still flushed but no longer erupting, and holding the ring-and-ribbon with formal care, as if we'd planned it. Then the maid of honor, then the bride stepped forward accompanied by a hideous ripping sound, so loud that the entire back row of guests craned around to look. She hastily sidestepped away from their line of sight. Another rrrrip. The beaded hem of her gown had snagged on a nailhead and torn free from the fragile silk of the skirt, leaving a two-foot length trailing along the floor.

Do something! Diane's already pale face had gone even paler.

I'm doing it. I was already on my knees behind her, whipping out my pocket sewing kit. Had I replaced the straight pins since the last time I'd used it? I had. I was pinning frantically when I heard a soft, kindly, sickeningly familiar voice.

Oh, dear. Yet another little problem. Can I help?

I looked up and forced myself to smile at Dorothy Fenner. Dear silver-haired Dorothy, the best-known wedding consultant in the Northwest. So aristocratic and yet so maternal. So well versed in etiquette, so well connected to the rich and famous. So very similar in appearance to Meryl Streep. And for three years now, so very successful at acing me out of potential clients. Nickie Parry's would be my first really big society wedding, and dear Dorothy had only missed landing the contract for it because she'd been on a Mediterranean cruise for the last month. She was strictly a guest here tonight, her husband being a colleague of the groom's father, but she kept popping up and pointedly offering help as one thing after another went awry.