Chapter 21
Sometimes I think the universe has a twisted sense of humor about staging the most spectacular parties right before everything goes completely sideways.
The scent of salt air mingles with garlic shrimp and chocolate-dipped strawberries as the Pemberton reception transforms our humble beachside patio into something that would make Vegas wedding planners sit up and take note.
The wedding party spent hours taking photos and now the sun hangs low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and pink, while tiki torches flicker to life along the expanded deck that stretches halfway to the shoreline.
The sound of waves crash rhythmically against the beach, providing nature’s own soundtrack to what can only be described as Georgie’s masterpiece of over-the-top wedding décor.
Macy and Camila are more or less creating and then handling the drama.
It’s so on brand for them, it’s basically their calling.
Crystal chandeliers hang from temporary structures that make me nervous just looking at them, spinning in the sea breeze and scattering rainbow prisms across enough billowing white fabric to sail a small yacht.
Rose petals from three different countries are scattered across every surface, while ice sculptures of swans slowly melt in the Maine summer heat, creating what looks like very wet abstract art on the cocktail tables.
A literal red carpet leads from the inn to the dance floor, which pulses with LED lights beneath the surface, making everyone look fabulous and perhaps feel mildly seasick.
“This buffet is a solid ten out of ten,” I announce, watching Fish position herself strategically near the seafood station with the focus of a cat conducting very important culinary business. “Although I’m pretty sure Georgie violated several fire codes with those crystal chandeliers.”
The lobster bisque smells divine, but where’s the catnip-crusted salmon I specifically requested? Fish mewls my way with her tail twitching with the indignation of unmet expectations.
“We’re saving that for your wedding,” I tell her with a wink and she practically hisses my way for even suggesting it.
I maintain that bacon-wrapped bacon would be superior to these fancy scallops, Sherlock adds from his position under the dessert table, where he’s clearly hoping for strategic crumb dropping. Also, why does everything smell so fancy? I just want a hot dog.
I want a pizza! Truffle barks it out in a high-pitched squeal.
OH MY GOSH, there’s chicken and it smells AMAZING even though it’s covered in weird green stuff, but I bet it’s still delicious and also, I can smell shrimp and some kind of creamy sauce, and OH, there’s bacon somewhere, too, and did someone say hot dogs because I LOVE hot dogs but really, I love everything that’s food, and this place has SO MUCH FOOD!
Truffle chatters excitedly, bouncing up and down like a rubber ball.
That weird green stuff is pesto, and it probably costs more per ounce than your dog food, Fish is quick to inform her.
“She’s not wrong,” I say, watching Georgie shimmy across the dance floor in a sequined number that could probably throw cruise ships off course.
She might be the unofficial wedding coordinator, but she is absolutely thriving in the chaos, directing servers and adjusting flower arrangements while Kiki dances nearby with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s discovered champagne pairs beautifully with revenge fantasies.
“How are we feeling about this whole situation?” Emmie asks, making her way over with baby Elliot balanced on her hip.
“Like we’re living in a rom-com with a side of homicide,” Buffy says, approaching from the opposite direction with that familiar smile that makes people do double takes.
She looks like my twin tonight, except with better posture and significantly less murder-related stress lines around her eyes.
And that little cutie in her arms can’t seem to stop smiling despite the fact that she looks downright exhausted.
“We’re feeling like this is either the most beautiful wedding reception in Maine history or the most elaborate crime scene setup,” I reply, accepting Ella from Buffy. My sweet baby girl has inherited Jasper’s talent for perfect timing—and dicey sleeping habits.
“Mind if we crash this family meeting?” Jasper asks with a grin, walking up with Leo close behind. Both men look like they’re trying to enjoy a rare moment of celebration while remaining professionally suspicious of everyone within a fifty-foot radius. Including me.
“There’s our little princess,” Dad says, appearing with Gwyneth at his side. “It looks to me, she’s ready for her beauty sleep.”
“She just had her bottle,” Gwyneth adds, reaching for Ella with the confidence of a grandmother who’s raised more babies than she cares to count. “We’ll take her back to the cottage for a proper nap.”
“Perfect timing,” I say, kissing Ella’s forehead before handing her over. “She’s been fed and should sleep for at least two hours.” Or two minutes, whichever comes first.
“Come along, tiny bride,” Dad coos at Ella as they head toward the cottage. “Let’s leave the grown-ups to get down on the dance floor—before they turn it into an elaborate crime scene.”
“Definitely leaning toward elaborate crime scene,” Jasper muses as they take off.
“You have to admit, though,” Leo says, gesturing toward where Charlotte poses for photos in what can only be described as her second dress of the day—a glowing masterpiece that literally lights up the dance floor—and I do mean it’s glowing in the literal sense, “this is wonderfully over-the-top. I’m just glad I’m not footing the bill. ”
Right on cue, the DJ announces it’s time for the first dance, and Charlotte and Piers take center stage as fog machines create clouds around the dance floor and sparklers launch fifteen feet into the sky in perfect synchronization.
Charlotte’s LED-threaded gown pulses with different colors as they spin, while every guest’s phone captures the moment for social media immortality.
“Wow,” Emmie, Buffy, and I say in unison.
“This is gorgeous,” I breathe out the words.
“Divine,” Buffy insists.
“Are you kidding me?” Emmie says. “I want to get married again just so I can have a moment like this.”
Leo clears his throat.
“To you, of course.” Emmie is quick to save face and her marriage.
All this fuss over picking a mate, Fish muses. In the wild, we just find someone compatible and call it a day and have a litter.
Easy for you to say, Sherlock counters. You’ve never had to worry about wedding registries and seating charts.
And thankfully, she never will—although Ella will one day. Is it too soon to start stressing over her wedding? Hopefully, she’ll marry Elliot, and then Emmie can stress out along with me.
Several songs pass with guests clinking glasses, spinning on the dance floor, and positioning themselves for the perfect Insta Pictures shot.
Phones flash constantly as people document every moment—the cake cutting, the flower toss, the bride’s laugh echoing across the water.
The party reaches fever pitch when a nine-foot figure covered in a black suit studded with programmable LED lights appears on the deck.
“What in the actual—” I start, but the words die in my throat as the mysterious dancer flicks one robotic finger, summoning everyone to the dance floor.
His face remains completely hidden, and he’s clearly on stilts, but he moves with impossible grace while his suit flashes in synchronized patterns.
Guests scream with delight as they flood the dance floor, and Georgie is absolutely living for this moment, dancing with the abandon usually reserved for people escaping natural disasters.
“Get over here!” Conrad shouts toward Jasper and Leo, who both growl their reluctance but start moving toward the pulsing dance floor anyway.
“You three need to join us,” Leo calls to me, Buffy, and Emmie as they head into the crowd of gyrating wedding guests and flashing lights.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jordy about a computer malfunction at the main desk, and I sigh. “Duty calls. I need to grab the backup laptop from my office.”
“Want company?” Buffy offers, but I wave her off.
“Stay and enjoy the robot dance spectacular. I’ll be right back.”
We’re coming with you, Fish announces, hopping down from her seafood surveillance position.
The party is too loud anyway, Sherlock agrees, shaking sand from his fur. And Truffle doesn’t like crowds.
Truffle barks rapidly in agreement. OH MY GOSH, yes, there are SO many big shoes everywhere and they keep moving around and I have to dodge them constantly, but also there are SO many interesting smells and sounds, and OH, did I mention the shoes are really big compared to my tiny paws and some of them have sparkles and some smell like different places, and it’s all very exciting but also kind of scary! the tiny terror yips enthusiastically.
“I happen to agree,” Buffy says, and I nod her way because so do I.
I wave to Buffy and head inside, leaving the pumping music and flashing lights behind for the relative quiet of the inn’s interior. The contrast is immediate—from chaos to calm, from strobing LEDs to soft lamplight, from hundreds of voices to more or less blessed silence.
“I think each of you deserves a snack,” I say to my furry entourage as we make our way through the lobby.
SNACKS! Sherlock barks and spins in a circle as does Truffle, who is currently lost in a hurricane of barking herself.
This wedding has everything except subtlety, Fish sighs.
And common sense, Sherlock adds. Did you see the size of that ice sculpture? It’s going to melt all over the deck and then raise the ocean table enough to shrink the world by half.
“You may not be far off,” I say with a laugh.