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“First, Mother’s flight from Honolulu is delayed. She won’t be here until late tomorrow morning.”
“Predictable. She’ll make it.” I wasn’t terribly surprised by the delay. Our mother wasn’t the most keen on leaving her Hawaiian retirement resort and was prone to selecting last-minute flights that kept her visits short.
“And then, the bridal spa time this morning was tense.” Cressida gestured at the resort behind us, which featured a huge new spa, which had been one of the main attractions for Cressida, Hester, and assorted friends.
Any tension was likely due to Cressida’s inability to relax, but I nodded sympathetically. “What else?”
“Then there was a flower mix-up. They sent the wrong shade of purple tulips. They’re going to clash horribly with the dresses and vests.”
“I’m sure it will be all right. The grounds here are so gorgeous. They’ll be the star of the pictures, regardless of the flowers.” The resort was framed by dramatic cliffs and rock formations, and the Oregon coast views were absolutely stunning. I was certain no one would notice what color flower the attendants held tomorrow afternoon, but of course, Cressida was unconvinced.
“I suppose the colors can be retouched in the photos if necessary,” she sniffed. She looked as imposing as ever in a crisp pink pantsuit and white linen blouse, more ready for a Hollywood luncheon than a seaside wedding. “And there is last-minute guest drama. Some unexpected RSVPs and cancellations. I had to redo the whole seating chart at two o’clock this morning.”
“Dearest, you need to sleep.” I patted her arm. The resort catering crew had better be serving wine with the dinner following the rehearsal, and plenty of it from the looks of her.
“You tell her, Uncle Ambrose.” Hester came running across the path from the resort toward where we stood in the open area where the ceremony would take place. She looked far more at home on the coast than her mother in a breezy yellow sundress and low sandals that showed off a pink sparkly pedicure. “She’s turning into Momzilla.”
“Oh my. You don’t want to end up a mother-of-the-bride horror story.” I wagged a finger at Cressida.
“I agree. Now, introduce me to your date,” Hester demanded, linking arms with me and turning to Harley, who was holding Hercules. The resort concierge had helped us arrange for a dog sitter for that evening’s dinner and tomorrow’s reception when we’d booked the wedding, but for now, the dog was with us. He had a decidedly cranky expression from his perch near Harley’s impressive biceps. The wind was whipping up, so I’d switched him to a teeny little fisherman’s style sweater.
“This is Harley. And you remember Hercules.” I gestured at the two of them, then back at Hester. Harley looked particularly edible in a simple white dress shirt and gray pants. He’d taken the time to trim his dark beard close and neatly comb his short hair. He smelled divine too. Introductions, Ambrose. Introductions. I forced myself to stop ogling him. “Harley, this is Hester, and over there is her lovely groom, Aaron Willmore.”
I pointed at the fresh-faced guy with curly red hair, who could still pass for a teen despite being twenty-two. Amazing that he and Hester were old enough to be married. He was tall, not built like Harley, but plenty of lean muscles suggested he’d well-earned his football scholarship. And he was presently surrounded by a whole group of other redheads. The mother, a strawberry-blonde with even more unruly hair than her offspring, was holding a teacup poodle with a rhinestone collar.
“Aaron’s family members are the ones in matching tracksuits.” Cressida pointed out, not entirely helpfully. It was, however, true. Every last Willmore was in a navy tracksuit with white piping and bright-white sneakers. They looked ready for a group 10K walk or possibly Black Friday marathon shopping.
“Mother. Stop being a snob, or I’ll get married in Mr. & Mrs. matching Disney T-shirts.” Hester laughed, but her eyes were serious enough that I shuddered along with Cressida.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Cressida blinked several times like she needed to clear the image of the bride and groom T-shirts from her mental buffer.
“Don’t think I don’t already own them for the honeymoon.” Letting go of me, Hester gave a playful twirl. “And besides, we have bigger worries than who is wearing what.”
“Oh no. What now?” Cressida groaned and whipped out her phone from her small gold purse.
“We’re short a flower girl and ring bearer. Aaron’s cousin just called. The kids have the stomach flu, so they’re not going to make it.”
“I could be the ring bearer.” A familiar voice sounded behind me, and I whirled to find Lex, my emerald-haired nibling looking as art-college posh as ever in skinny black jeans, a We Wear Crowns tour T-shirt, and a battered velvet blazer from some undetermined decade.
“Lex! You made it.” Hester threw her arms around Lex.
