Page 71 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Lily blew them a kiss. ‘Off you go, boys.’
She jogged inside, giving the thumbs up to the bluegrass band standing ready by the giant horseshoe altar.
The gentle strains of ‘I Will Always Love You’, with vocals from a stunning drag Dolly, rang out through the barn, bringing tears to Lily’s eyes. Amos and Bernard were such a gorgeous couple, and they deserved all the happiness in the world. To be even a little part of that happiness was an honour that she could hardly believe had been bestowed on her.
The guests, decked out in their best western finery (including one guy in a Best Western uniform – awkward), turned as the grooms made their highly unusual entrance.
‘Oh my God,’ muttered Bernard, as he was carried down the aisle on the shoulders of the Pauls (and the one Peter), one hand outreached to clasp Amos’s, ‘I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
Moon(shine)struck
Mort
Mort was in hell. He’d never seen such a … festive … wedding reception. The barn had been dressed to, as a cowboy might say, hog heaven. The guests sat on whiskey barrel chairs around huge round tables dressed with horse blankets and centrepieces that ranged from candle-topped saddles to fake saguaro cacti hung with string lights. Some of the drunker members of the wedding party were doubling down by doing shots at the saloon, which had a full vintage storefront and swinging doors and staged shoot-outs held at half-hour intervals (upon learning about Mort’s new social club, Lily had enlisted the Grief Guys to do the honours). The Pauls had retreated to some of the cowhide armchairs that Lily had arranged into miniature living room setups.
Fringed leather vests, cowboy boots, and ten-gallon hats bobbed and weaved around the room as the guests snacked on fried pickles and brisket that had been smoked on-site overnight.
Mort had never felt so out of place. He said as much to Lily, who’d just now boot-scooted up to him in a flurry of sparkly pink.
‘Never felt so out of placeyet,’ she said, waggling her hips. ‘Wait till you see the Christmas in July wedding setup – I’vegot Tink on stationery, and she’s outdone herself. Besides, you’d make a good Santa. Just let that five o’clock shadow grow out a bit.’
Mort rubbed his cheek, trying to come up with a good comeback for that. But Lily had been swept away by a tall blond cowboy in a tasselled leather vest sporting a hobby horse in one hand. Kicking up a booted foot, she waggled her fingers at Mort.
Mort nibbled on his corn on the cob, which was a challenge given that his jaw was so firmly clenched from all the banjo music.
‘Damn, this moonshine isstrong,’ croaked a guy in chaps and a dramatically printed flannel shirt. He perched on a nearby barrel, his eyes watering. ‘Who needs a nostril hair trimmer when you’ve got this?’
He waved his glass demonstratively under Mort’s nose.
Mort’s eyes widened – and watered. Oh no. That was no moonshine. And not because Mort had any idea what moonshine smelled like. But hedidknow what embalming fluid smelled like. And the guy in chaps was about to be immortalised at the age of thirty-five for life.
Mort slapped the drink to the floor.
‘Oops, sorry. Nervous tic,’ he said.
‘You’re okay,’ said the guy, flagging down one of the cowboy waiters hurrying around in flannel aprons. ‘Plenty more of that sloshing around.’
Which was precisely the problem. Where was Lily? Mort glanced about, trying to spot her blonde curls and pink cowboy hat amidst the line dancing hordes and the costumed ‘horses’ trotting around the room. But Lily was, as usual, by far the smallest person in the room – and even with her pink outfit it was impossible to pick her out from amongst the leather vests and blinding belt buckles.
‘Lily!’
He pushed through a crowd of whooping cowboys testing their lasso skills on one of the Pauls, who stood on a stool making bodybuilding poses. (Fortunately for the Paul, they had no such skills.) Then shoved through a Jell-O pistol shoot-out. (Messy, and squelchy, although the Grief Guys were fully in character.) Then fought his way through the Dolly Parton shrine, which featured an enormous Dolly crafted from flowers. (Beautiful, just like Dolly.)
He found Lily reorganising the hobby horses on the back wall.
‘There you are!’ he exclaimed, relieved.
‘Miss me, partner?’ she drawled, in a regrettable, but still adorable, southern accent. She pressed the hobby horse’s ear, making the horse neigh dramatically.
‘Very much.’ Mort leaned close. ‘We have to swap out the drinks, immediately.’
Lily frowned, trying to see where he was going with this. ‘What’s going on? Are they making the martinis with vodka? Are the champagne snobs refusing the prosecco?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Did someone get into the secret stash of absinthe? The boys promised me that was for their inner circle only.’
Poor Lily had erroneously assumed that if the switcheroo had struck once, she’d be safe for the rest of the night. Wrong. As the Greek funeral had shown him, the switcheroo knew no limits.
‘Embalming fluid,’ he said. ‘The spirits have been switched out for embalming fluid.’
Lily’s clutch on the hobby horse grew so tight that it unleashed a series of whinnies. ‘So, how bad are we talking here? What kind of side effects? Will it help them age gracefully?’
