Page 82 of To Have and to Scold

Who you gonna call?

But instead of a resounding “Ghostbusters!” It’s “I haven’t the slightest idea!” Incident management? Animal control? The National Guard?

The bride is sitting in the sand, her hands shaking, her veil halfway in front of her face. The groom is kneeling on one knee in front of her. If they weren’t already married—as of a few minutes ago—I’d think he was proposing to her but with a tragically bad grimace on his face. An hors d'oeuvres table is on its side, and the arch--the beautiful arch I made—is tipped over. A humpbacked, wooly creature is chewing through one of my perfectly shimmery tulle panels.

“Prince Harry!” I hear my own voice ring out amongst the crowd as I spring forward.

The photographer’s got her camera turned around and is looking at the photos. “I can’t believe it!” she laughs hysterically. “I caught it on film. Look at this.” Several people gather around, but she steps next to me to show me.

Because, you know. I’m the wedding planner. I should be kept abreast of all incidences involving all animals belonging to the camel family.

The screen shows a grinning Ryan and Lila under the arch, posing for photos with her siblings and parents. The photographer repeatedly pushes a button and the photos, in live mode, share a sort of stop motion horror film of Prince Harry the llama prancing into the shot, his large patchwork brown and white posterior swaying to-and-fro, knocking over the snacks table. In the footage, Lila screams as Prince Harry takes a big sniff of her head. In Ryan’s attempt to protect his new bride, he steps in between her and the llama, which upsets the arch above them. Even Lila’s dad’s burly arms can’t stop the thingfrom collapsing to one side, a slow-motion zigzag to the earth of ribbons, tulle, flowers, and wicker. Which, in turn, causes Lila to topple over, too.

A surge of shame hits me.

This isn’t my fault. But as the wedding planner, I’m the commander in chief of this beach right now. And the beach went rogue, which means I’m responsible for that.

We look up from the camera. The llama, completely unaffected by the gathering crowd, bats his thick, black, falsie lashes and continues on, dragging the tulle along with him as he chews my fabric like it’s his cud.

I blink. I blink again. The crowd has grown quiet and everyone’s staring at either the llama, the bride and groom, or at me, waiting for me to do something.

I snap out of my stupor and rush over to Lila and Ryan, reaching out my hand to help her up.

“Are you okay, poochie coo?” Ryan asks her, grimacing.

Lila stands with the help of both Ryan and me and lets out a sob. She wipes her face, but then the next sob sounds a whole lot like a laugh.

She bends at the waist, placing her hands on her knees as she begins to laugh. Soon, she and Ryan are having a big ol’ laugh fest. The first feeling I’m fighting is frustration. Shouldn’t we be focused on gathering any last shreds of dignity we may have? I reach up to smooth out her previously perfect hair.

“Mary,” I say into the headset, my voice a little shaky. “We’re going to need that big surf rake in the garage, please?”

Lila surveys the wreckage, the food in scattered bits and pieces along the sand. Already, there are gulls landing to peck at the remnants. “I think we’re going to need more than a surf rake, Dallas,” she says before laughing again.

The father of the groom watches the video footage that a guest happened to capture on their phone. “With Ryan and Lila’spermission, let’s sell that to a media outlet. We’ll make a ton of money!”

I feel a presence at my shoulder and turn to see Beck with sand rakes and garbage bags in tow.

“Hey,” he says, grasping my upper arm. My steadying force. “Let’s get this taken care of together, okay?”

My bottom lip trembles. “This is officially worse than switching those two cakes,” I say. “Do you mind if I go curl in a ball in that big tub in the honeymoon suite?” I’m half joking. Maybe one-fourth joking.

Beck cradles my face with his free hand. “There’s no time to think of you in that tub, as much as I’d love to fantasize about that right now, Dallas. And yeah, this might be worse than the switched cakes, but do you see anyone else upset right now?”

His gaze takes in the beach, the people around us getting garbage bags and cleaning up. Some guy has a big bucket of ocean water that he’s splashing on the ruined, scattered bits of desserts. Prince Harry is calmly taking in the scene, safely flanked on either side by wedding guests that must know him. Blessedly, someone has taken the mangled fabric he stole and is keeping it out of his reach.

Ryan’s family, still laughing, joins Lila’s family and they all help in one way or another.

At first, I’m dumbfounded. No one’s yelling. No one seems even remotely concerned about the large mammal still on the grounds. In fact, now someone’s approaching him with a celery stick and another is petting his neck.

What is going on?

“Someone call King,” a wedding guest says, gesturing to the llama. “It’s his llama. Prince Harry’s a big pain in the—”

“But he’s also a big softie and we love ‘em,” the woman’s husband interjects loudly.

“We’ll forgive King,” the father of the bride says, looking only a little worse for wear. “It’s fine.”

“It’s going to be alright,” Beck says, his brown eyes my anchor, crouching down to pick up napkins splayed on the sand.

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