In-Laws & Outlaws (2 page)

E
verything
about the day was picture perfect. The sun shone softly overhead, enough to provide warmth and ambiance but not enough to blind anyone. The leaves fluttered magically in the trees, as though they were waving for the bride and groom. Even the birds that rested on the nearby branches had paused their chirping as though they knew important words were about to be spoken.

“Now, let’s try this again,” Stacy said, fighting to mask the unpleasant sound of having to speak through her clenched teeth. “When the pastor says, ‘If anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony,’ then you say…”

“I object!” hollered an aging man with hair so slicked back with oil that it shined in the afternoon sun, wearing a pair of faded overalls and an undershirt that had seen its best days during the Eisenhower administration. Stacy dropped her gaze to her feet and counted to ten. Across the wide open space behind the office, the scoffing laughter swelled then died down as an opposing viewpoint called out.

“This isn’t a courtroom, you idiot. And if it was, you’d be the defendant! Charged with criminal trespass and defiling a dead farm animal, most likely!” There was more raucous laughter from the woman’s family as they nodded at her remark, elbowing each other in their enjoyment of the humor. Stacy wanted to smile at the remark because at the moment the old man was the bigger of the two pains in the rear end, but knew it would be unprofessional to do so.

“No!” she shouted sharply, tucking her clipboard under her arm and clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. She was secretly thrilled when all of the noise stopped and everyone turned to look at her. She rose up to her full height and pressed her lips together in a stern, unforgiving line.

“No, the correct answer is nothing! You say nothing! No one is to object during the ceremony, as it will make you look uncouth. Besides, the legal civil ceremony occurs with the filing of the license, not with the pastor’s ceremony, so it is pointless to interfere. You would only end up embarrassing the bride and groom with any antics about objecting. It’s not even a legal requirement to have the pastor speak this statement, so keep your mouths closed and keep all nasty words to yourself!”

She struggled to control her anger and keep her voice down, then silently offered up a prayer that the pastor was not old fashioned and would happily do away with this ridiculous question. It was rhetorical anyway—or at least most people considered it rhetorical, despite what these two hooligans and their hordes of kinsfolk thought—so there was really no point in asking.

“On to the next question,” Stacy said, composing herself again long enough to glare at both sides of the family while the bride and groom sat quietly together off to one side. “When the pastor says, ‘Who gives this woman in marriage?’ you say…” She turned to the bride’s father and waited expectantly.

Only she was interrupted by a word coughed into someone’s hand. She couldn’t be sure due to the phlegm brought up from years of cigarette-induced emphysema, but “rat bast…” seemed to echo throughout the large courtyard. She once again wanted to smirk, but it was well past her lunch time and she was no longer enjoying their failed attempts at behaving themselves.

Instead of a return-volley insult, Stacy was taken completely off guard by a blurry figure lunging across the space that separated the families. The old man, joined by several other male relatives, had crossed the demilitarized zone—also known as an aisle in most wedding circles—and began pummeling sundry family members from the groom’s side. Stacy didn’t bother moving. She watched stoically, and even yawned once or twice behind her clipboard.

Finally, she’d had enough. Stacy marched up the aisle, ignoring the flying chairs and other debris, and stepped over to the bride and groom, who surveyed the scene in mild and detached horror as their families and future in-laws battled it out pro wrestler-style. Stacy looked down at both of their eager but fearful faces, her hand stashed on her jutted out hip, and said the words she’d never spoken in all her years in this industry.

“Are you sure you don’t want to elope?”

“No, ma’am,” the bride said softly, “I want my family around me. I know Porter feels the same way.” She turned to the groom and positively beamed, although for the life of her Stacy couldn’t tell why they felt that way about the participants in the chaos behind her. The young man grinned back like a fool in love, and they remained oblivious to the fighting around them as they inched closer, like two caterpillars seeking refuge inside the same cocoon.

Maybe they’re just so used to it that they forgot to notice anymore
, Stacy thought, feeling the beginnings of a monster headache coming on. The brawl carried on around them as she watched in bored repulsion. For their parts, Porter and his bride Priscilla just waited, somewhat embarrassed but disinterested, for it all to be over, and eventually began their own conversation about some current event or another, ignoring the action right in front of them.

“How can you two be so calm about this? I swear to you this is the first time I’ve had to have a
rehearsal
rehearsal! We’re literally practicing for the rehearsal right now, you realize that, don’t you? Just to make sure these people know how to act when it’s time for the real rehearsal, which is supposed to be when everyone figures out what to do during the actual wedding? But it’s like you don’t even care that these people are trying to ruin your wedding.” Stacy smiled politely as she could under the circumstances, pointing with her clipboard in the direction of the still-rumbling crowd of relatives. “This is the first time an actual live-in-person version of Fight Club has happened on our property, but you look like you hardly even notice.”

“Believe me, we do, but we’re purposely trying not to notice,” Porter finally said with a shrug before putting an arm protectively around Priscilla’s shoulders. “You have to remember, we’ve lived with this our entire lives. If they weren’t fighting against each other over us, they’d be fighting within the family over something just as stupid. This is a typical Tuesday afternoon where we come from. And I, for one, am ready to move on. They’ve gotten plenty of my attention—and heck, even some of my involvement over the years—but I’m ready to grow up now. I’ve got more important things to think about these days.” He turned to his sweet little bride and kissed her on the nose, almost melting Stacy’s heart until she heard the sound of something breaking behind her. She closed her eyes, refusing to survey the damage.

Priscilla nodded. “I can’t even count the number of times I’ve had to drive down to the local dirt track on a Saturday night and pick up my daddy because the owner had called me to come get him. You’d think he was the town drunk from the way someone has had to fetch him from a fight most of his life, but no, this is Daddy even when he’s sober. It’s pretty standard stuff for us.” She turned back to Porter and continued their quiet conversation, as though their explanation had made it all make sense.

Stacy turned away from their discussion and finally watched the fray. Male and female, old and young alike, nothing was off limits. Two men had each other in double-armed headlocks, while two women who each had to be pushing eighty years old had each other by what was left of their thinning white hair. In one grappling, she saw two younger men who she swore were actually in the same family, but who were taking advantage of an opportunity to come to blows over some unrelated argument.

“We’ll just make the pastor skip that part about objecting,” she said out loud to no one in particular, then radioed for the security team to come break this up before it could turn ugly, or at least before any real property damage could occur. She switched off her radio, shot one last sympathetic look at the bride and groom, then turned and headed back inside.

O
kay
, Stacy, you can do this. Tonight’s the rehearsal dinner, then tomorrow’s the wedding, then these horrible people will be out of your life for good.

The pep talk she’d given herself before she could even muster the resolve to get out of bed wasn’t working. Neither had the one Nathan had given her during their date the night before.

“You’ve got this, Stace,” he’d said, “You can handle these people like nobody’s business, and you’re the best person for the job. If I didn’t believe that, there’s no way I’d let you run my company.”

Stacy rolled her eyes. “You ‘let’ me run it? I don’t think so. I think you’d let Charles Manson run it if it meant you didn’t have to come within fifty feet of anything to do with a wedding!”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I love weddings! I own a wedding planning company, for pete’s sake!”

“No, you own an event production firm,” Stacy corrected pointedly. “We’re not mere wedding planners!”

“Ah, I see what this is!” Nathan shot back, a knowing look gleaming in his eyes. “You’re hinting that I’m afraid of commitment. You want me to ask you to marry me, that’s why you’re making stabby little remarks about my running away from weddings! Well, I call your bluff. Not only will I be at this fiasco wedding that’s got you so tied up in knots, but I’m ready to make way more commitment than you are!”

It was Stacy’s turn to alternate between looking horrified and seemingly embarrassed. She dropped her gaze and spoke softly, all too familiar with his feelings on the subject. “Nathan, I’m sorry, that’s really not what I was saying. I wasn’t implying anything—”

“Stace, it’s okay,” he’d said, reaching across the table in the intimate little restaurant and putting one hand on top of hers. “I was only teasing. And you know full well that I’m ready for any amount of commitment you can throw at me, but I also know you’re not ready. I’ll just have to be patient.”

They’d changed the subject, but inside she felt small and sad. She didn’t deserve Nathan, even though he was sure she loved him. He’d been more than understanding about why the thought of their relationship unnerved her; regardless of how much she knew she loved him, he was still the owner of her company. She cast sideways glances at work whenever she heard two people giggle over anything, certain that they were talking about her relationship with the boss. But what would it take to get over that?

As if he’d read her mind, Nathan had leaned closer, took both her hands in his, and whispered, “You know, if you’d let me prove how much I loved commitment, you wouldn’t have to date your boss anymore.” Stacy raised an eyebrow, waiting to see where this was going. “You’d be married to the owner, which would legally make you the owner.”

Stacy pressed her lips together tightly, willing herself not to say anything rash. Her gut reaction, just like always, was to protest. But was Nathan really proposing? And is it what she wanted?

“You’re too good to me, you know,” she finally said with a smile. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a guy like you.”

He didn’t answer, but he smiled in a way that didn’t quite light up his whole face. She knew he saw right through her avoidance of his sentence, and it hurt to watch him try to hide his disappointment.

Stacy pushed the memory of their date from her mind, intent on facing the day ahead of her. There was work to be done, and there was nothing like coffee to get her started. She jumped up and got an extra-large pot brewing while she took the fastest shower she’d taken in a long time. She got dressed in a hurry, poured the pot into a giant pump carafe, and snatched a pre-filled container of sugar and creamer from her cabinet before jumping in her car. The coffee was a peace offering for the staff who were already on site, many of whom had been there since four o’clock that morning.

L
unch was
a distant memory by the time the last rear end hit the chair. She loomed over the assembled family members from both the Lancaster family and the Hardy family—minus the bride and groom, of course—and fought desperately to keep from laughing. The various relatives were seated in child-sized chairs that the company used for the children’s tables at events and the many society birthday parties they were called in to host each year. The sight of these countrified family patriarchs and their assembled hordes with their knees nearly to their chins almost made her laugh out loud, but the angry expressions on their fuming faces was soul soothing at that moment.

“You might be wondering why I called you here early, since the rehearsal isn’t until this evening,” Stacy began in a calm voice, the one she reserved for teaching second grade Sunday school at her church.

“I’m wondering why I’m sitting half on the ground!” one man barked, earning nods of approval from both sides of the room. “It’s bad enough to tell us the rehearsal’s been moved up, but then you go and plop us down on kiddie chairs? What’s wrong with you?”

Finally, something they agree on
, she thought.
This is already progress.

“You’re sitting in child-sized chairs, Mr. Hardy, because you’ve all been acting like children.” Stacy paused to let her verdict sink in. Instead of looking duly shameful, though, they were nearly evenly split between looking triumphantly smug and looking even angrier. “And I do mean all of you. Neither family is blameless, and neither family has the upper hand. Everyone here is guilty in some way of conspiring to halt this wedding, and I’m telling you right now that you will not succeed. If I have to take your fees and send your children off on a dream wedding where you can’t find them and where you can’t share in their lovely day, then so be it. All you’ve succeeded in doing is hurting your children. You haven’t managed to stop this wedding with all of your nasty remarks and hateful pranks over the past few months, but you have fully succeeded in your mission of proving to the world just how low-class, ill-mannered, and—quite frankly—brutally heartless you can be.”

She looked down over the sea of upturned faces and dared them to argue. The expression on Stacy’s face could have melted solid stone, even without her words to finish the task.

“I’ve called you all here to tell you to stop it. Now. There will be no more nastiness, no more hatred, no more ugliness. Even if you didn’t care for your own children, you are required by law to care about my property and the physical safety of my staff members. I won’t hesitate to call the police and have the guilty parties arrested for as many crimes as I can get to stick. Not only will I inform them about all of your little games, I will ask them for help in coming up with new crimes to charge you with. You will have shot JFK by the time I’m done accusing you to the authorities, do I make myself clear?”

Her forceful tone was working on most of the group, and Stacy continued to rise to the occasion in order to secure her own safety and that of the company, even if she couldn’t hope to actually change these people’s attitudes and behavior towards the hapless bride and groom.

“And if any of you still need convincing, I have this,” she declared, reaching into her leather folder and withdrawing a piece of paper that she held up for all to see. “Don’t bother trying to strain, there’s a copy for each of you. It’s required by law that you be provided with your own copy. This is a restraining order. If any of you comes within 200 feet of this property, or of Priscilla or Porter, between tonight’s rehearsal and the wedding reception, you will be arrested. Does everyone understand what that means? Arrested? As in, you will have your hands ziptied behind your back before you’re placed on the ground, awaiting transport to the county jail? You are to attend the ceremony while standing a safe distance from the happy couple. You will eat food, you will dance, you will smile, then you will be gone. No one is to interfere with their wedding, or I will make sure you suffer.”

A few of the previously proud faces looked partially sheepish, so Stacy knew they’d understood her meaning. She smiled triumphantly at the group for only a second before one tiny, wrinkled, old woman climbed to her feet with no small amount of effort. She looked around the room, staring into each and every face, both those in her family and in the family of her mortal enemies. She drew herself up to her full height—which couldn’t have topped out at five feet—and turned to the front. Stacy smiled at her weakly, pleased to have gotten through to at least one person in the room long enough to make an ally of her. Her hopes were crushed when the woman spoke.

“Those two young ‘uns are gettin’ married over my dead body.”