Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“Can you lend me a pen, Stephen?”

Three pens shot out for her use.

She took the check from the middle of her bouquet and wrote on its back, “Rosalie Brigsley—pay Stephen Bradley.” She handed it to him.

“Yours, I believe.”

The three of them stared at the check. She was gone before they could even comment.

“What a girl our James has gone and married,” said Jean-Pierre.

“You’re drunk, you frog,” said Robin.

“How dare you, sir, suggest that a Frenchman could get drunk on champagne. I demand satisfaction. Choose your weapons.”

“Champagne corks.”

“Quiet,” said Stephen. “You’ll give yourselves away.”

“Well now, tell me, Professor, what’s the latest financial position?”

“I’m just working it out now,” said Stephen.

“What?” said Robin and Jean-Pierre together, but they were too happy to argue.

“He still owes us $101 and 24 cents.”

“Disgraceful,” said Jean-Pierre. “Burn the place down.”

Anne and James left to change, while Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre forced down some more champagne. The toastmaster announced that the bride and groom would be leaving in approximately fifteen minutes and requested the guests to gather in the main hall and courtyard.

“Come on, we must watch them go,” said Stephen. The drink had given them new confidence and they took their places near the car.

It was Stephen who heard Harvey say, “God damn it. Do I have to think of everything?” and watched him look around his guests until his eyes fell on the trio. Stephen’s legs turned to jelly as Harvey’s finger beckoned him.

“Hey, you, weren’t you an usher?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rosalie is going to leave at any moment and there are no flowers for her. God knows what’s happened to them, but there are no flowers. Grab a car. There’s a florist half a mile down the road, but hurry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. I’ll go and get the flowers.”

Stephen turned and fled. Robin and Jean-Pierre, who had been watching horrified, thinking that Harvey had at last rumbled them, ran after him. When he reached the back of the house, Stephen came to a halt and stared at the most beautiful bed of roses. Robin and Jean-Pierre shot straight past him, stopped, turned around and staggered back.

“What the hell are you up to—picking flowers for your own funeral?”

“It’s only Metcalfe’s wishes. Somebody forgot the flowers for Anne and I have five minutes to get them, so start picking.”

“Mes enfants, do you see what I see?”

The others looked up. Jean-Pierre was staring rapturously at the conservatory.

Stephen rushed back to the front of the house, the prize orchids in his arms, followed by Robin and Jean-Pierre. He was just in time to pass them over to Harvey before James and Anne came out of the house.