Brown-Eyed Girl (Travises 4)

I raced to the lodge and entered through a kitchen filled with busy caterers. As I proceeded to the nearby crafts room, I heard a strange musical bellow, fading into something like a moan. I saw Sofia standing at a large wooden table beside an elderly man dressed in a kilt. Both of them were looking at a tartan-covered bag bristling with black pipes.

Sofia, wearing a pink fit-and-flare dress, gave me an appalled glance. “You haven’t changed yet?”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The bagpipes are broken,” she said. “Don’t worry. I can get a couple of musicians from the reception orchestra to play for the ceremony —”

“What do you mean they’re broken?”

“Bag’s leaking,” came the bagpiper’s glum reply. “I’ll refund your deposit like we agreed in the contract.”

I shook my head wildly. Sloane’s mother, Judy, had set her heart on a bagpipe processional. She would be deeply disappointed with a substitution. “I don’t want a refund, I want bagpipes. Where are your backups?”

“I don’t have backups. Not at two thousand dollars a set.”

I pointed an unsteady finger at the plaid heap on the table. “Then fix that.”

“There’s not enough time, and no supplies. The seam of the inner bag’s come loose. It has to be sealed with heat-sensitive tape, and cured with infrared light to – Lady, what are you doin’?”

I had gone to the table, seized the bag, and pulled out the Gore-Tex lining with a determined tug. The pipes moaned like an eviscerated beast. Digging into my handbag, I found a role of silver duct tape, pulled it out, and tossed it to Sofia. She caught it in midair. “Patch it,” I said tersely. Ignoring the bagpiper’s howls of protest, I raced off to the housekeeper’s supply room, where I had hung a black top and midcalf skirt on a closet door. The top had slipped from the hanger to the dirty floor. Picking up the garment, I saw to my horror that a couple of ugly grease splotches had soaked into the front.

Swearing, I searched through my bag for antibacterial wipes and a fabric-cleaning pen. I tried to remove the stains, but the more I worked on them, the worse the top looked.

“Do you need help?” I heard Sofia ask in a couple of minutes.

“Come in,” I said, my voice strung with frustration.

Sofia entered the supply room and took in the scene with a disbelieving gaze. “This is bad,” she said.

“The skirt is fine,” I said. “I’ll wear it with the top I’ve got on now.”

“You can’t,” Sofia said flatly. “You’ve been out in the heat for hours. That top is filthy, and there are sweat stains halfway down your sides.”

“What do you suggest I do?” I snapped.

“Take the top I was wearing earlier. I’ve been in the air-conditioning for most of the day, and it still looks fine.”

“That top won’t fit me,” I protested.

“Yes, it will. We’re almost the same size, and it’s a wrap top. Hurry, Avery.”

Clumsy with haste, I took off my dusty pants and top and scoured myself with a handful of antibacterial towelettes. With Sofia’s help, I changed into the black skirt and the borrowed top, a stretchy ivory blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves. Since my proportions were more generous than Sofia’s, the V neckline that had been relatively modest on her was a definite plunge on me.

“I’m showing cleavage,” I said indignantly, tugging the sides of the top closer together.

“Yes. And you look twenty pounds thinner.” Busily, she yanked the pins from my hair.

“Hey, stop that —”

“Your updo was a mess. There’s no time for a new one. Just leave it loose.”

“I look like an alpaca in a lightning storm.” I tried to flatten the wild mass of curls with my hands. “And this top is too tight, I’m all bound up —”

“You’re just not used to wearing something that fits. You look fine.”

I gave her a tortured glance and picked up my headset. “Have you checked in with Steven?”

“Yes. Everything’s under control. The ushers are seating the guests, and the dove handler is ready with the birds. And Sloane and the bridesmaids are all set. Go. I’ll bring the bagpiper as soon as you give me the okay.”

By some miracle, the ceremony started on time. And the wedding unfolded more perfectly than Sofia or I could have imagined. Lavish arrangements of thistle, roses, and field flowers had been wrapped around every column of the pavilion. The bagpipe processional established a solemn but electrifying tone for the bridal party’s entrance.

As Sloane proceeded along the flower-strewn aisle runner, she looked like a princess in her white lace gown. Charlie looked entirely happy as he stared at his bride. No one could have doubted that he was a man in love.

I doubted anyone even noticed the sullen scowl on the best man’s face.

After the vows were exchanged, a flock of white pigeons burst into flight and soared through the coral-glazed sky in a moment so picturesque that the entire congregation let out a collective breath.

“Hallelujah,” I heard Sofia whisper in the earpiece, and I grinned.

Much later, while the guests danced to orchestra music in the reception tent, I stood in a quiet corner and spoke to Steven on the headset. “I see a potential carry-off,” I said quietly. “Over.” On occasion, we had to perform a discreet assisted removal for guests who’d had too much to drink. The best way to avoid problems was to catch them early.