Chapter Ten: On the Dynamics of Intra-Family Negotiation

Four ticks and several crossings-out in the little book later, the Honoré team met after working hours at Catherine's for a late night report-in: the elated bride, the collected and content groomsmen and the stressing groom. Catherine had supplied them with beer, and very amiably loaned them her binder, which Poole was flipping through in a state of panic, as half the pages seemed to be missing.

"Florist, where's the florist?" he was babbling.

"Melusine's." Dwayne indicated the page with a tip of his bottle. "Best fake flowers in the islands."

"No, no, real flowers, for the bouquet. Ah! Jacques'." He took note of the number. "I was thinking," he went on, glancing across at Camille, "since I seem to recall your mum going on about colours, that we could take the red roses and so on she ordered for that, and recycle them into smaller nosegays for the bridesmaids and the mothers, and well, give you orchids – white ones, since . . . well, you know. With some camellias, pink ones for your . . . that is –" He was turning rather pink himself, with Camille's smile growing wider, and fonder, and warming up with that thing that was supposed to be coyness, although Poole was beginning to realize it was anything but.

"What a splendid idea!" Catherine was approaching with more bottles. "I will tell Sylvie, Xandra and Juliet to co-ordinate their costumes with those. They will go nicely with Madam Esmerée's voudun blessings." She beamed seraphically at Poole, who began to look mulish.

"If you think for a moment –!" he started, then stopped, bit off the rest of it and made himself to gently release the binder, lay down his pen and memo pad, and sit back. "Ah. Yes. Yes, I think they might. Thank you, Catherine. It'll all look very – festive."

Camille brought her bottle down to the table with a thump, staring, as Dwayne and Fidel slid amazed glances at each other over theirs. Catherine picked up the empties, grace and charm itself. "The blessings will go in the Pavilion, I think, with Melusine's silks and batiks for the church hall. Then everyone can enjoy Pierre's Crablet and Prawn Platter."

Poole fixed a wide, slightly manic smile on his face. "Brilliant! And I just – won't swallow!"

Dwayne sputtered his beer a bit and leaned aside casually, so Fidel could give him an absent thump or two on the back. Fidel himself continued swiveling his eyes between the chief and the sergeant's mother, still from behind the mouth of his own bottle.

"The Crown Court and the Palms will prepare several side dishes as well, and tomorrow, I begin on the cake," Catherine was going on, arranging the tray of glassware. "In the afternoon, when Cami and I return from Yvette's and the fitting. She will be the most lovely bride!"

Catherine danced away to her kitchen as Camille sent a frown after her. Fidel caught the look, but Poole hardly noticed; he was torn between the thought of tiny crabs all staring at him and the unexpected chill the mention of the bridal gown had brought.

"Right," he said, after a moment. "Um, Fidel. Gennaro's tomorrow morning, to pick up the rings? Dwayne, bachelor party all arranged?"

Fidel's relieved "Right, Chief!" and Dwayne's hearty "All set, Chief! And with the budget you give us –" were cut off by Camille's bottle hitting the table a second time. "Bachelor party?" she demanded, her eyes on her betrothed. "Why do you need one of those?"

Poole began gathering up his notes. "I thought it might be polite to actually meet my groomsmen before the ceremony, Camille?"

"Oh, really? You will meet just your groomsmen?" the bride countered, sparing a glare for Dwayne, who immediately busied himself with the beer. "So that is why the little book, hein?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Poole told her, loftily. "If we'd had more than four days to –"

"Well!" Camille abandoned her bottle and caught up her shoulder bag. "Then I see I shall need to arrange a bachelorette party, tout de suite!"

"What?" Poole froze in the act of fastening his briefcase. "W-what for?"

"My last night of freedom, certainement!" She glared around, huffed once and turned to stalk away.

"Oh!" Poole shouted after her. "Well . . . fine! A nice spa package, or . . . some such –"

Camille whirled back. "We have already had the spa treatments, last week!" she growled. "Or hadn't you noticed?"

Face it, Poole, Richard thought as he watched her vanish into the kitchen after Catherine. You can't win.

"What have you done to Richard?" were the first words out of Camille's mouth as she dumped her bag in the tiny pantry where Catherine stored and washed her glassware.

Her maman smiled serenely as she rinsed. "Nothing! Well . . . we came to an agreement. I mentioned to him that the nuns would perhaps be reluctant to sing where voudon favors were displayed, and he very generously offered to double the donation I had promised the convent, if they did not sing." She shrugged Gallic shoulders. "You marry a fine man, Camille."

Her daughter implored heaven with both hands, but before she could protest, Catherine was going on. "Are you sure about the dresses? I still have a few favors to call in."

"Neither the bridesmaids nor we can afford all-new dresses for one wearing, maman!" Despite Catherine's talk of favors, Camille knew the costs her single parent was incurring only too well. In a moment she flipped up a towel to begin drying. "Everyone has a white dress. We will accessorize them with Melusine's extra fabric, and they will look lovely."

Catherine shook her head, assiduously rinsing. "A fine man, our Richard. But he is making you too practical."

"You taught me to be practical, maman. And since everyone has a phone, we will need no wedding photographer."

Catherine glowed. "Ah, I have it all arranged. Riley will arrive at the church at eleven on the day!"

"Riley?" Camille nearly dropped a glass. "Maman, he is a nature photographer! He takes pictures of seaweed!"

"He is looking to branch out," Catherine said, reasonably.

Camille tossed the towel and faced her mother. "Maman, je t'aime beaucoup, but I have already spoken to Yvette, and I will not be looking like a Perrault princess in an animated film."

The glassware clattered in the sink. "Camille!"

"I like the beach wedding idea, and I have bought the white lawn-and-lace frock she showed us for a third the cost of the Cendrillon you were pining for, and I can wear it again."

Catherine was furious. "Stubborn girl! And what about the rest of the money we had saved for that gown?"

"It will not go to waste. I have plans," Camille answered, grabbing up her bag. Those plans mostly involved tulle, but she said nothing of that as she stormed out.

Promptly at 4:42 AM the next morning, the landline in the official residence went off, loudly.

Poole thrashed, muttered, and began the slow process of disentangling the bug netting. By the time he got out from under it, Harry was waiting by the red eye, one of his own fixed on his hut-mate's unsteady approach.

"Why is it never for you, hm?" Poole asked him, fumbling for the handset. "Umm . . . DI Poole. Look. This had better be an emergency, or at very least a murder, or I – uh. Hallo, mum. What . . . Yes, the cheese came, thank you. Yes, they're all thrilled . . . De Gaulle? What about him? . . . well, what about his airport? You're in his airport!" Suddenly he was fully awake, his voice a full octave higher than normal. "You're coming?!"

"Darling, you don't sound very happy about it," Jennifer Poole's voice told him.

"No, no! I'm, um, delighted! Ecstatic! Uh, mum, it is just you, isn't it? I mean, you and dad – you do know you're coming to the other side of the world? You didn't bring the entire family? I mean, there's a difference between how many invitations are sent out and – mum, you did get an invitation, didn't you?"

"Of course, dear! Catherine called us immediately it happened and we sent out all the announcements the next morning. We're so happy for you, sweetie . . ."

Poole stopped listening. Oh, good. All the announcements were out. Now there wasn't a single one of his relatives who didn't know there was a chance of him being stood up at the altar, with his longed-for bride in one of her huffs –

Then his mum's voice cut off and the deeper, flatter tones of his dad filled the receiver. "Got to go, son. Less than an hour to get to Orly and the connecting flight. And don't fret, boy. I've got it."