Chapter Twelve: On the Social Benefits of Celebration
In the last of the afternoon light, Catherine moved amongst her patrons on the terrace, showing her temporary staff how it was done. The rehearsal had gone without a hitch, as had the rehearsal dinner, and Fidel was still having to hold on to Rosie, who was practically dancing with excitement at being a flower girl "for the fust time," as she put it. She was no more elated than Catherine herself. Tomorrow, her only child was to be wed.
Camille was hashing out something about the bachelorette party with Juliet and Xandra, a distant relation of Fidel's who was to be a bridesmaid in lieu of payment for her seamstress skills. Jennifer was being restrained from helping Sylvie to wash up. Dwayne was sitting with his three cousins, talking up the bachelor party to follow. The wedding was going to be beautiful, even without the Cendrillon. Camille was marrying her choice: a good man, a sensible and sound man, who would never leave her . . .
Except for now, when he did not appear to be here.
Catherine glanced around sharply and caught sight of two figures standing together, at the railing of the terrace overlooking the beach. Graham, the father, had made the toasts at the rehearsal dinner. He was also a fine man, much like his son, though taller, and broader and, if that were possible, even more unsure of himself than Richard. These English!
"Three hundred thousand pounds!" That was Graham. Casually, Catherine moved over behind them to pick up the remaining dishes.
"It could realize more," Richard was saying. "I'd be grateful if – if you'd handle the details, dad."
"I was in the wrong business," his father joked, after a long moment. Then, after an even longer one, "You'll never come home again, will you."
"I will. We will – somehow," Richard told him.
Catherine clinked plates. "Reechard," she sang, musically. "Sylvie has the herbs ready in the kitchen."
She moved back toward the bar then, hearing her son-in-law say quietly behind her, "Dad . . . thanks, for everything." He was joggling the little book as he said it.
...
"Isn't this fun, now?" Dwayne said, as he poured out the third bottle of rum.
On the table of the private dining room of the Crown Court, the contents of the perspiring box of two days ago were arrayed: seven rounds of cheese, piled up in imitation of a wedding cake and being decorated with Catherine's herbs by two of Dwayne's cousins: Perceval the death nerd and Alphonz, who went in for gold jewelry. They did not seem to want to agree about the fun.
Across the room, Fidel was assisting Maurice of the green Citroen in patching the groom together. Graham Poole had brought with him from England two complete black tie outfits: his own and one bought by his son years ago for an occasion he had no desire to remember. Nevertheless, Richard was being cajoled into it, even the parts that didn't fit.
"Maurice is a tailor, sir," Fidel was assuring his boss. "Any adjustments it needs, he'll do them." But Maurice was looking very doubtful.
Just as Perce was about to throw down the rest of the rosemary and refuse to drape another piece, a brisk knock sounded on the door of the room. With a short prayer of thanks to the loas, Dwayne dashed across and threw open the door.
"Good evening, boys."
She was slender and tall and dazzling; the face of an Egyptian queen and a perfectly toned body in a shimmering, clinging almost-sari. She mesmerized the room with a slow, heavy-lidded survey, finally settling on Poole, half-in and half-out of his crumpled white shirt and just-too-small waistcoat. "So," she cooed. "You are the groom, yes?"
"Dwayne?!" squeaked Poole.
...
Meanwhile, Camille was being sewn into her lawn-and-lace frock, with Juliet, Xandra, Sylvie and Catherine bustling about, fitting the layered lace bodice to her and arranging spaghetti straps across Camille's bare back, and securing seven yards of white tulle to a linen waist band, so as to create the effect of a nereid, rising from the sea foam.
Catherine herself selected just the right orchid from the bouquet to anchor her daughter's veil on the morrow, between teary glances at the other gown: the champagne linen sheath with the matching jacket and embroidered bodice that Camille had bought for her mother to wear, with the money they had not spent on the now-forgotten Cendrillon.
Ruby Patterson, the Commissioner's niece who had been recruited to help make up the numbers in the procession, nibbled at the trays of dainties provided and bounced around on the periphery, trying to distract everyone with the traditional party games. "Camille, Camille!" she called out, popping a bit of pastry into Xandra's willing mouth as she worked. "Let's play 'Things I Know About Richard!' Or I mean, 'Things You Know –' well, you know!"
But there was only so much trivia Camille could take. Her nerves were at the ragged edge with anticipation and fear that it could all still go wrong. "I know he's having a wild fling as we speak!" she burst out bitterly. "Between Dwayne and that little book –!"
"Camille," Juliet soothed, working her friend's wild hair up into a bun, "it's not like that. Belinda is one of my best friends! She teaches dance at the Harbour Gym."
"Oh, and she is dancing for Richard tonight?" Camille demanded, pulling her twisted locks back out of the bun, because she had to do something with her hands rather than picture them strangling some man-debauching floozy. "How could you, Juliet!"
"Not for him, Cami, with him!" Patiently, Juliet gathered the bun back into place. "Fidel and Dwayne had enough money left over to pay for an hour of her teaching him to dance for the reception tomorrow."
Some of the dread that, somehow, what Camille wanted to happen so badly tomorrow would not happen, seemed to lift from her shoulders with that. She turned and caught Juliet in a tearful embrace by way of apology, and things became a little what Richard would have called "mawkish" before the party got down to the serious business of the bridesmaids' dresses.
So, Camille thought briefly as she draped batik around Ruby's waist; What then is in that little book?
...
St Ursula with its adjoining church hall is not far from the Honoré police station, and from it there was, at that time, only a short stroll down the street to Edouard's weathered white Pavilion, which was practically on the beach. The regular workday had just begun when the sexton of St Ursula's, having let the world know he was unhappy at being gotten up at sunrise to prepare the church, unlocked the doors to admit Melusine and company with her silk florals and bolts of batiks.
A bit further on, Edouard was welcoming Benson, the three-hundred-pound DJ with an antique gold voice, who was come to the Pavilion to set up his equipment. He was followed by Madam Esmerée, with her baskets-full of hideous little dolls in red, white and black, meant to convey blessings on the wedding. They were to be set up among the reds, purple-grays, oranges and creams of Melusine's décor.
Slowly, young men in holiday attire, then older men, then women and couples with baskets and children trailing behind, began to trickle in, to put up tables, set chairs, and pass around bottles of what looked suspiciously like homemade brew. Saint-Marie was gathering.
...
In the end, Maurice had convinced the groom to switch out the waistcoat and trousers of his own black tie suit with rentals from his employer's stock, and thrown in a pair of new socks as incentive. By the time Poole got home from a last dash to Port Royal on the morning of his wedding day and tore open the package to dress, all the shops on Saint-Marie had closed for a half-day, so there was no choice but to wear the cherry-red waistcoat Maurice had so thoughtfully provided.
"I look like a bloody robin!" Poole bellowed at Harry, who pulsed his dewlap in agreement, but otherwise did not move from his place on the study/dining/occasional table.
No amount of questionable language or of stamping around his shabby bungalow would change what was, and eventually Poole set out the last of the mango and mealworm mash, gathered up his small Port Royal bundle, slipped the booklet into it, and locked up the shack.
He had alerted his best men to be early, and Dwayne and Fidel were waiting by the Defender, resplendent in their dress whites (white long-sleeve tunic, extra-wide piping on the trousers; not much different from regular duty uniform). Poole in his half-rented tux looked even more incongruous than usual.
"Gentlemen," he said, pausing in front of them, ". . . thank you." He had no more words to say, and instead partly unrolled his bundle and removed two elegantly embossed silver objects. Fidel grinned in thanks. He'd wear his, someday, when he made DI.
Dwayne turned his over in his hand, disappointed. "A tie clip?"
"It doubles as a bottle opener," Poole told him. He knew his crew.
The three of them piled into the Defender, Poole clutching the rest of his bundle in his lap and praying to who or whatever might be tuned in that, as there was a church, a set of rings – Fidel had the rings, didn't he? – and an officiant, there would be a bride.
Coming very soon: Part Four, the conclusion