Part Four
Chapter Thirteen: On the Importance of Ceremony Adhering to Ritual
Having suffered hours of her hair being carefully combed, then styled and combed again, then bound back while the makeup was applied, then more styling and finally the careful application of her lace, lawn and tulle gown, Camille was just about ready to scream. Five days ago, her wedding had seemed the most simple, natural thing in the world; the logical, inevitable consequence of meeting, fighting with, working with and loving Detective Inspector Richard Poole. Now, on the day itself, having to endure the wait was nerve-shattering.
Is he here yet? When is he coming? Between pulling at stray curls, she detailed Ruby to let her know the instant the Defender arrived with her beloved, whatever condition he was in.
It didn't help when Camille was introduced to Juliet's friend Belinda. She was plunked down beside her in the makeshift dressing booth at the last moment, to be costumed as the final bridesmaid needed to make up the even numbers her maman insisted upon. Camille pasted a big smile on her face, hating the woman at first sight.
"Well, well," Belinda smirked, as Xandra began work on her lustrous dark hair. "Our bride-to-be. Saw your groom last night. Nice. Very nice."
Which was why, after Riley had arrived (not really all that worse for drink) to take the numberless photos, and all the posing and ear-to-ear-ing and Just One Mores were finished, Camille ducked into the booth, brushed off her veil, abandoned her bouquet, caught up her tulle in both hands and slipped out. She hadn't seen Richard alone since their last argument. Suppose Belinda had traumatized him? Suppose he was never going to show?
...
When Ruby finally noticed the Defender had pulled up to St Ursula's church, she bounced, squealed and disappeared off to the dressing booth, leaving Father Darnell to direct the groom and his best men to the church hall. There Dwayne's cousins were gathered and Riley was setting up, and the groom's parents joined them, then Catherine, resplendent in her shining champagne sheath.
Ruby, meanwhile, found Juliet with Rosie and her petal basket, Xandra, Sylvie and even Belinda, who was flirting with the young man setting up the bar. She didn't find the bride.
...
Having dismissed the puzzled cabbie, Camille hobbled through the sand around the official residence on the silver sandals loaned by Sylvie, banging on the shutters.
"Richard?" Bang. "Richard!" Bang, bang, bang. "You, English! Come out here and marry me!" She pulled off one of the sandals, the better to bang. "We are going to have –" Bang "– a romantic walk on the beach to the –" Bang "– chapel!" Crack. The heel had come away.
Cursing flimsy borrowed shoes, her own impetuous whims and, for the first time in her life, sand, Camille hopped around to the veranda. Harry was there, sunning himself on the rail, gently fanning his wattle. Camille paused on the splinter-filled stairs and looked at him.
"He's not here, is he?" she asked.
Harry continued to bask, one eye on her.
"He's gone to the church, hasn't he?" Camille asked.
Harry tilted his head.
Camille edged off the stairs, removed the other sandal and briefly regretted she had not brought her shoulder bag with its cell phone. Instead, she hiked up her tulle with her free hand, faced south and began to run.
...
The aged organist of St Ursula's had taken her place, and at the sound of the first quavering notes, precisely at five o'clock, the sexton grudgingly opened the chapel doors. Those guests who had actually received invitations (and they were not many) pressed forward into the slightly cooler interior of the building and the park-bench pews.
Father Darnell had to leave off organizing the procession when he discovered one block of it was missing: all four bridesmaids, the matron of honor and the mother of the bride, all in an agitated cluster to one side. He moved across to them, only to discover the one essential element of a wedding was unaccountably absent.
Behind his back, the older men, and the young men and women and the families who had assisted in the setting-up, began quietly filing inside. No matter if they lacked the fancy paper invitations; they all knew that it takes a whole town to marry off such a bachelor.
...
Panting hard, Camille got through the ribs of rock and jungle dividing Saint-Marie's endless beach by a combination of hopping on the one good sandal, while it lasted, and considerable bruising of her toes. Once on open sand again, she continued to run without stopping, toward her future.
Where was a policeman when you needed him?
...
Rather than turn all his parishioners out again, Father Darnell elected to wait beside an altar draped in white cloths and swamped in flowers, smiling easily to reassure his flock. Graham and Jennifer had taken their front row seats on the right, surprised to find so many on their side of the aisle.
The music flowed placidly on, and in his place beside the priest, Richard Poole came to realize he had been staring at the same wilted hibiscus for over ten minutes now. Dwayne stood stolidly behind him, ignoring the murmurs of the congregation. Fidel had slipped off down the aisle to where Juliet stood on the chapel veranda, wringing her hands. Rosie sat on the floor beside her, the basket between her knees, carefully picking out petals to lay on the runner, then picking them up again to place them back in the basket. Catherine was no doubt having her meltdown in seclusion.
Poole's mum had begun to fidget, his dad's face was stony, and not just because of Richard's red waistcoat; but that was nothing compared to the Commissioner, who stood at the chapel door in his full resplendent dress whites, looking like thunder. The rest of the procession were nowhere to be seen.
I knew it, ran through Poole's head, over and over again. Too good to be true. I knew it. It's the suit. The suit must be cursed. It's not me. It's not. I knew it, I knew it . . .
Fidel came back from the porch and took his place with his chief, searching for something to say. "It'll be all right, sir," he began, in a quiet murmur.
"'Course it will," Dwayne put in, with the same volume. "The sarge wouldn't leave anyone in the lurch."
"You'll get used to it, sir," Fidel was going on. "This is just part of being married, waiting for the wife. She'll be here. This is right, what you're doing. It's right."
The church clock struck the half-hour. Well, now at least the black tie was correct . . .
The chug-chug of an ancient motorcycle coming up the street, then a cry of relief from the clustered bridesmaids. Catherine appeared, red-eyed, veil and orchid in hand, Ruby at her heels with the bouquet. Juliet got Rosie up off the floor with her basket ready. Xandra was beating sand out of tulle as Belinda undid hours of careful work with a hairbrush, impeding Catherine's veil arranging. Sylvie caught up a handy swatch of batik and began flapping it near the ground.
"Camille, the sandals!" she shrieked. "What happened? They're gone!"
The organist, having heard the bride's name, abandoned the hymn she was murdering and went into an approximation of the wedding march. Poole straightened his shoulders up amid the hubbub outside, lifting his chin, gazing over the stirring congregation toward the flurry on the porch. Was it – happening?
"Maman, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Camille was saying. "But he is here, he has not gone, maman, please?"
"Ma petite, shhh," Catherine whispered, brushing away tears from both their faces. "He is here. The idea of home is precious to Richard, and you are his home now."
...
Poole hardly took in the next few minutes. He was aware of a double line of women and men drifting toward him up the runner, then Juliet with Sylvie the bar maid, then Catherine, dressed as smartly as he'd ever seen a woman at a premier in London, her hair a stylish auburn bob. Then little Rosie, tossing handfuls of petals straight up in the air with abandon.
Then the rest of the chapel went away and he could only see Camille, her beautiful hair falling wild and glossy over her bare shoulders under the sheerest of veils, and clutching the Commissioner's arm as if it were a lifeline.
Glory, he thought, she is in a showgirl's dress, and she looks stunning!
It was a high-low hemline, actually, the bodice crusted with lace and the skirt swathed in tulle, and if it seemed a bit dingy around the hem, well, it went with the barefoot look.
. . . she was barefoot.
People were noticing, as well: all the pews, and the folk standing in the side aisles, and Superintendent Poole's eyebrows were knitting up like nobody's business.
"Oh, Graham," Jennifer whispered, cuddling her husband's arm, "look, how sweet!"
Graham's eyebrows unknit. "Yes, it's um . . . unusual," he rumbled.
Poole stopped looking at Camille's bare feet, even beautifully framed by the skirt as they were, and focused on her face. He'd seen that look before: at a murder scene when he'd be climbing out of the Defender, or after a frustrating day when he made it into Catherine's, or sometimes from his own veranda at the bungalow, when he'd come walking up after a spat at the office . . . like, everything was all right, now.
"Fidel," he said, very quietly, "if you would."
He used his junior sergeant's shoulder to lean on as he slipped off the brogues, nudging them behind him toward Dwayne. Then Camille came to him, her hand thrust out to catch his, her whole being glowing, and together they turned toward the altar.