Between Sisters

Do you hear me, Meg? I mean it.

Claire had said it three times last night and twice this morning.

What, no swing bands or ice sculptures? she’d teased.

Ice sculptures? I hope you’re kidding. I mean it, Meg. Simple is the adjective you should remember. We don’t need it catered, either. Everyone will bring something to eat.

Meghann had drawn the line there. It’s a wedding, not a funeral, and while I see certain similarities in the two events, I am not—repeat not—going to let you have a potluck wedding.

But—

Hot dogs wrapped in Kraft cheese and pink Jell-O in wedding-ring molds? She shuddered. I don’t think so.

Meg, Claire had said, you’re being you again.

Okay. I’m a lawyer. I can compromise. The food will be casual.

And the reception has to be outside.

Outside. Where it rains? Where bugs breed? That outside?

Claire had been smiling by then. Outside. In Hayden, she added.

It’s a good thing you mentioned that. I might have accidentally booked the Bloedel Reserve on Bainbridge Island. It is beautiful there. And not a horrible drive, she’d added hopefully.

Hayden.

Okay. But a bird will probably crap on your head during the ceremony.

Claire had laughed, then sobered. You don’t have to do this, you know. Really. It’s a lot of work to have a wedding ready in nine days.

Meg knew Claire didn’t really want her planning this, and that knowledge stung. As with all opposition, it strengthened her resolve to do a great job. I have a meeting in town, so I’d better run. As Meg started to leave, Claire had said, Don’t forget the bridal shower. Tomorrow night at Gina’s.

Meghann had forced herself to keep smiling. A “couples’?” shower. No doubt she’d be the only single woman in the room besides Gina.

What fun.

She unlatched the picket gate and stepped into a surreal Candy Land yard, half expecting Pee-wee Herman and his pals to jump out at her. A green Astro Turf walkway led her to the porch steps, which sagged beneath her weight. At the salmon-pink door, she knocked.

The door started to open, then thunked into something. A voice cursed thickly, “Damn door. ”

This time the door opened all the way.

An old woman with pink hair sat in a motorized wheelchair, a canister of oxygen beside her. Clear tubes slipped into each nostril, rode across her high, hollow cheekbones, and tucked behind her ears.

“Am I supposed to guess?” she said, frowning.

“Excuse me?”

“What you want, for Henry’s sake. You knocked on the damn door, dintcha?”

“Oh. I’m here to see the event coordinator. ”

“That’s me. Whaddaya want? Male strippers?”

“Now, Grandma,” came a thin male voice from the other room. “You know you retired twenty years ago. ”

The woman backed up, spun her wheelchair around, and headed away. “Erica is in trouble. I better go. ”