Chapter 34 The Rehearsal Dinner
Chapter34 The Rehearsal Dinner
The Mother of the Groom
“An atmospheric river. What are the chances?” Abigail Blakeman asked as she dressed for the rehearsal dinner in the guest
suite at La Mariposa. The sky was clear for their party, but the weather for the wedding was threatening, with updates coming
in from Madison every hour. Abigail wondered why even have a wedding coordinator if she was just going to roil everyone up
about a little rain? Wasn’t her job to calm everyone down? To the bride’s credit, she responded to every text with an umbrella
emoji and a heart. Chase simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’re inside and wearing clothes. No need to panic.”
Just in case, in a nod to due diligence, George had spent the morning at La Mariposa supervising the tent setup with Antonio’s
cousin. He reported that while it wasn’t the most glamorous tent, it would “do the job.”
Meanwhile Abigail had spent the morning at the Padero Surf Club with Sarah and Lloyd finalizing details, stringing additional lights, and supervising the table setup even though it was the exact same setup that the club used for every event. The rental blue-and -sand tablecloths and napkins registered “beachy vibes,” just like the bride wanted. The flowers arrived, and Flora the florist took the tables over the top with muted tropical tones that paired with the blues. The bride and groom insisted that there be no wasteful or extraneous monogrammed party items, so, sadly, Abigail didn’t order the monogrammed bucket hats for each guest as a party favor. (But that decision did save hundreds of dollars, which she put toward top-shelf tequila.)
“At night, with the twinkle lights on, it will look like a movie set. Amazing,” Madison promised, as she looked around the
casual, chic clubhouse.
The theme of the night was “Moonlight Surf” and the dress code was California Cowabunga, a ridiculous pairing of words concocted
by Madison as a placeholder for the event that somehow stuck and ended up on the invitation. Chase and Penny loved the romantic
overtones of “Moonlight Surf” and thought California Cowabunga sounded casual, ironic, and on point to describe the vibe of
the Padero Surf Club location to out-of-towners. Surely, guests would know they didn’t mean to literally come in surf wear,
Penny had said, dismissing Abigail’s concerns about the descriptor. “Everyone will know to dress up by dressing down.”
But to the mother of the groom and host of the party, it was a meaningless turn of phrase meant to guarantee that a few guests would wear Hawaiian shirts, board shorts, and flip-flops despite the real, mailed invitations meant to indicate an elevated surf event. The theme did allow Abigail an excuse to wear a blouse splashed with color, velvet pants, and a bedazzling puffer vest because while the surf club was chic, it was also unheated. She had spent hours in resale shops buying up the bits and pieces for the wedding weekend. She’d taken Lola from the senior center with her, which helped enormously. Lola was an unrelenting vintage shopper who knew to check the backs of shelves and other unexpected spots for the good items other shoppers had hidden until they could come back later. The strategy paid off: a stunning Roberto Cavalli blouse hidden under a drab gray blazer. Lola had even managed to find some vintage Hermès ties for George at astonishingly low prices in the bargain bin. Abigail had emptied her entire secret bank account to outfit the family for multiple events, and she felt it was worth every penny.
Was it worth every penny to sell her mother’s Queen Anne maple highboy to cover the cost of the lobster tacos for tonight’s
guests? Probably not. But, in all honesty, Abigail was getting rather fatigued by all the proper, early American antiques
that decorated her Fair Harbor home. Where was the fun in mahogany? She was looking forward to the day they could sell the
house, ditch Aunt Eleanor’s period pieces, and move to a condo with comfortable couches and cozy fabrics.
Ping. Another text from Madison alerting that all the latest models had the rain starting after the event. “More weather updates!”
Abigail mocked.
“It’s fairly predictable.”
“What is? The weather?”
“The atmospheric river,” said George, who monitored the weather as a hobby. Even the weather in places he had never been to
and was never going to visit made it onto his daily rounds. George was your man if you wanted to know the temperature in Denali
National Park at any given moment. Or the precipitation expected in Pompeii. He’d been monitoring the storms out in the Pacific
for months because of El Nino. “These sort of extreme weather events are happening with more frequency, and this is the season
for heavy rain here. But most of the guests live nearby or are already here, the ceremony and dinner are inside, and we have
a tent! The dancing can carry on. Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he finished. And then taking in his wife in her silk blouse and
velvet pants, he kissed her on the lips with the passion he usually saved for Saturday night.
“What was that for?” Abigail said, pulling away and smoothing her clothing and hair.
“You’ve done an amazing job on the wedding, all parts of it,” he said, inching her back toward him with a gentle tug. “You’ve risen to the occasion to embrace a new daughter. The party tonight is going to be wonderful. You haven’t bankrupted us. That extra legroom in coach was a game changer. This house is paradise. And you look hot in these pants,” he said, running his hand down her back and over her backside. “Senior center Pilates, my ass. You are not a senior with this bod.”
“Language, please, George!” Abigail blamed a pre-dinner drink for the friskiness, but she blushed all the same. “Later,” she
promised. “Is your speech ready?”
“You know it. Picked out some choice California quotes.”
“That turns me on,” she purred. “You’re not going to quote Reagan, are you?”
“I’m not. But if that crowd I met at Ming’s club was any indication, he still has a lot of fans here.” George had played bridge
at the Nottingham Forest clubhouse and picked up a few potential clients who needed online lessons or paid partners in tournaments.
It had been a fruitful afternoon while the Merry Widows and others gathered for the mothers’ tea.
“You know you’re up against Baron Plumley,” Abigail reminded him, as Simon was also giving a toast. The traditional father-of-the-bride
slot, though by now, after so many glasses of wine and long talks with Alexa and the Widows, Abigail was resigned to the fact
that Simon Fox was not Penny’s biological father and the Blakeman grandchild would not inherit a title. Their grandchildren’s
lineage would include a random tall, dark-haired volleyball player/grad student who needed cash. She had made peace with that,
most days. But George going toe-to-toe with Simon in the toast department was an exciting prospect. Never mind the mayor of
New York appearing as the officiant. “And everyone’s favorite late-night-talk-show mayor, Timmo Lynch.”
“I feel like I can compete with the apple farmer,” George said, referring to Simon by the nickname they’d given him after a few G it is, paradoxically, the denial of time.’ Penny and Chase, look at each other and then look around the room at the people who love you. Imprint this. This is memory. This is time. This is marriage. We wish you a healthy heaping of all three. To Penny and Chase!”
With a lump in her throat, Abigail lifted her glass and she was back at her own country club wedding thirty-one years ago.
In her white dress with the capelet and George by her side in his gingham tie. Memory. Time. Marriage. Her George had done
it again. Let Timothy Lynch come at them with Irish poets. And Lord Simon Fox with that accent. Her George would not be bested.
“To Penny and Chase.”