Caught on Camera

Chapter 12, Scene 2, Part 23

Scene 2

Sweat trickled down Mickey's temples. The groom and his groomsmen stood in formation to the right of the white-painted gazebo, with Halden at the end nearest the step, and Mickey at the other. Under the cone-shaped roof festooned with garlands of purple and white flowers, the bald pastor from the Armstrong family's hometown church cooked in a black robe and white collar. He held the family bible in two plump hands, shifted his considerable weight from foot to foot.

The invitingly cool blue lake stretched for miles in the distance. No breeze stirred the surface nor offered relief to the hundred or so perspiring guests awaiting the bride.

Mickey and his buddies wore dark formal tailcoats, striped grey trousers, white shirts and sissy matching lavender cravats and waistcoats. At intervals during the interminable delay they bemoaned the wedding planner's order for traditional English attire. Who knew it'd be as hot as hell in June in the Great White North? Apparently not the wedding planner or Candy. Or more likely they didn't care. To them, it was all about appearances.

"She's twenty frigging minutes late." Garth inserted one finger inside his collar and tugged at the garment constricting his neck. "If I ever get married, it'll be in January."

"Make it February fourteenth," Mickey muttered out the side of his mouth. "Then you'll never forget your wedding anniversary."

"Good tip. You always think ahead, Mick." Garth fist-bumped him behind Wade's back.

A thick white carpet over the uneven flagstone path stretched from the gazebo to the hotel, dividing rows of white wooden chairs. The women wore colorful summer dresses and fancy hats that had somehow survived crushing in baggage, the men summer weight suits, shirts and ties. The nannies had squirreled away the children for naps or spirited them off to the playground beside the tennis courts, out of sight and hearing.

Garth patted the beads of sweat on his forehead with a pressed cotton handkerchief. "Hey, Mickey and Wade. In your room last night after the bachelor party, did either of you find rose petals scattered on your bed and a bottle of red wine with a note on the inn stationary?"

Mickey suppressed a chuckle. "No," he managed. "How 'bout you, Wade?" He stepped out of line to aim a broad wink at Wade which he carefully concealed from Garth. Halden ignored them, his eyes trained on the hotel's rear entrance.

Wade accepted Mickey's invitation to play along. "Not me. Apparently I don't rate the special night service. What did the note say?"

"It was handwritten. 'Compliments of Juanita from Reception. If you want anything, please call', with the word 'anything' underlined twice, and a phone number."

Wade whistled.

Mickey yanked at his cravat to give his damp neck some air. "Seems clear the buxom Juanita has the hots for you. Well, did you call her?"

Garth guffawed. "Are you nuts? Tiffany's the gal for me." He cast a suspicious scowl at his friends. "I'd sure like to get my hands on the joker who planted the idea in that woman's head that I'd be interested in casual sex." A circuit connected in his big brain. "Hey, Mick, how'd you know anything about Juanita's physical appearance?"

The traditional "Here Comes the Bride" wedding march blared from speakers concealed in the gazebo ceiling, saving Mickey from further interrogation. En masse the guests swiveled in their seats, angled for a view of the procession from the hotel.

Mickey shaded his eyes under a hand. Candy, via her wedding planner mouthpiece, had banned sunglasses for the wedding party. Rachel, a willowy vision in pale lavender chiffon, emerged from the hotel, followed by Tiffany and Asta. The two bridesmaids synced their pace to Rachel's slow, graceful lead across the terrace and onto the white carpet, holding large bouquets at their midsections.

Mickey willed Rachel not to stumble in her heels on the uneven surface. Concern that Tiff's careful steps indicated she'd been drinking had him squinting into bright sunlight on high alert. He'd attended several parties at which Tiffany had had difficulty standing, let alone walking in those high heels women insisted on wearing.

As Rachel planted one foot in front of the other at a stately pace down the carpeted aisle between the seated guests, he forgot all about Tiffany, never even noticed the moment the bride exited the hotel. A coronet of white roses graced shining blond hair that fell loose to Rachel's bare shoulders. Petite perfect breasts swelled above the strapless bodice. Her rosebud lips parted in a smile in his direction, although logic dictated she couldn't distinguish one groomsman from another due to pathetic distance vision.

Mickey's heart thumped a violent tattoo under the shirt and vest. His groin swelled, stiffened. He'd believed women dragged men to the alter. Never again. The will to forge a permanent link with such loveliness overrode common sense, overrode thoughts of possible consequences. In the moment, nothing else mattered except a guarantee this woman would be at his side every day, in his bed every night. 

And unavailable to other men.

He glanced at Halden, fiercely intent on his approaching bride, and understood at last why Halden agreed to a short engagement. Candy, a vision of radiant light and elegance reminiscent of Lady Galadriel in the Lord of the Rings franchise, floated ethereally down the aisle on the arm of her tall, thin father. A glittering tiara rested on blonde hair braided and coiled in Scandinavian fashion, a nod to Halden's heritage. Her figure-hugging lace dress sparkled and shimmered with every step. No veil covered her face. To provide photographers with better shots, he concluded uncharitably.

As Candy drew near, he realized Halden and Wade hadn't even noticed Rachel or the other bridesmaids. Nor had the guests. The princess bride drew all eyes. Cameras clicked. Candy's friend Raynald elbowed aside the official photographer and folded spindly limbs in a grasshopper crouch on the carpet for frontal shots.

Mickey struggled with a mad impulse to grab Rachel's hand and tug her into the gazebo to stand with him before the pastor. An unthinking step in her direction to do exactly that flash-froze the hormones coursing through his veins. The logic circuits in his brain kicked into gear. Realization slammed him back into line with the other men. 

Lord help him, he'd fallen hook, line and sinker for the lovely Canadian.

The easy attraction, the prospect of an affair, instantaneously morphed into something astonishingly serious. Because not only did he want Rachel in his bed, he wanted her at his side, hand in hand, facing that pastor.

His life had suddenly become impossibly complicated.