Love Letters From Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [105]
The bridesmaids arrived with the hairdresser, the makeup person, and so much paraphernalia that their dresses had to be stored in the hallway. Jason, now banished from the kingdom of the women, wandered around looking lost until Paul put him to work making bows. To the young man’s credit, he didn’t object and actually did a passable job. It turned out that sober—and away from the influence of his buddies—he was really quite nice.
“Ice!” Paul demanded as he burst into the kitchen. “What are we going to do about ice?”
“Send someone to town for it,” Bridget said, taking a tray of cheese biscuits out of the oven. “We have a cooler in the cellar.”
“It’s going to take more than one. I should go myself. We need at least another case of champagne. There’s a liquor store in this county, right?”
Cici admitted reluctantly, “Well, about that... ”
Lindsay suggested, “Maybe we can call the hotel and have Catherine stop on her way out and pick up what you need.”
Traci suddenly burst into the kitchen, wearing a short silk robe and a full-length bridal veil. “Listen,” she said, “I know there’s no electricity or anything, but the photographer is going to be here in twenty minutes and we really need to plug in the curling iron...”
It was at that moment that the pressure cooker exploded. The pressure valve sailed across the room, dented a copper teapot on a display shelf, and knocked over a serving tray. Blackberry sauce spattered the ceiling and everything else within a six-foot radius. Ida Mae dived to protect the cheese biscuits with her arms. Cici and Lindsay covered their heads. Traci screamed and ducked, but not in time to avoid a shower of blackberries over her hair, her robe, and her veil.
For a moment no one moved. Bridget, crouched beside the stove, caught Cici’s eye and mouthed, Bad luck.
Then Paul plucked a blackberry from the tip of his nose, examined it for a moment, tasted it, and decided, “Needs more salt.”
Bridget tried to rinse out the veil, but there really wasn’t much to be salvaged. Traci watched, looking shelled-shocked, as Bridget spread it over the line outside to dry, saying something about the sun bleaching out the dark spots. “I tried to tell you, sweetie,” Paul said, “a hat, not a veil.”
It was at that point that Lindsay rushed upstairs, tossed her closet, and came back down with a white linen portrait hat. While Cici and Bridget tried to wash the blackberry stains out of Traci’s hair without completely ruining her style, and while the stylist bemoaned the lack of a blow-dryer and the bridesmaids hovered around with eyelash curlers and bobby pins, Lindsay draped the hat in white tulle, wrapped the brim with ribbon and roses, and, to everyone’s amazement and delight, Traci actually smiled when she put it on.
The mothers arrived, and Cici assured them that the front lawn would be cleared of chicken feathers before the ceremony. She then looked around in amazement, because, until that moment, she hadn’t even noticed that last night’s storm had somehow swept up so many feathers from the chicken yard and deposited them on the front lawn that it looked as though someone had opened a feather pillow.
The groomsmen arrived, and they actually remembered to bring the groom’s tuxedo. Noah got a rake and tried to sweep up some of the chicken feathers. Cici made what repairs she could to the flower beds. Lindsay stapled bows and banners and swags and drapes on every possible surface, then began to trim down the smallest