"Splendidly!" Michael said. "They've already done most of the priest's outfit. Would you like to see it? I can try it on for you; your cousin and I seem to be much the same size."
Of course she wanted to see it. It was for her wedding. Like Mother and Samantha, she would happily spend hours contemplating a placecard holder for her own wedding, while begrudging every second I spent on anyone else's wedding, even something as critical as finding out if I would fit into my dress. But I had to admit I was curious about the priest's outfit, especially if Michael was proposing to model it. Michael disappeared into the dressing room. We heard a few words in Vietnamese, muffled giggles, and the jangle of a dropped hanger. Eileen browsed in a few of the magazines--which made me nervous; one of them had a rather spectacular article on a wedding with a Roaring Twenties theme that I was hoping would not catch her eye until after her wedding. If ever.
Suddenly, the curtain was thrown violently aside, and out stepped Michael, in costume and very much in character. The long, flowing vestments were all black velvet, white linen, and gold lace, and made him look even taller and leaner than usual. He'd obviously decided to adopt the persona of a powerful, sinister prelate--perhaps one of the Borgias, or a grand inquisitor of some sort. He stalked slowly across the floor toward us, catlike, Machiavellian, almost Mephistophelean, and I found myself imagining him in a dark, paneled corridor in a Renaissance palazzo, lit by candles and flaring torches--a secret passage, perhaps--and he was striding purposefully along to ... to do what? To foil a devious plot, or arrange one? Counsel the king, or betray him? Rescue a fair maiden, or seduce one? And as he turned and looked imperiously at us--
"Oh, it's absolutely fabulous!" Eileen gushed, jarring me from my reverie. Suddenly I became aware once more of the mundane real world around me, the steady mechanical humming of a sewing machine, a scrap of incomprehensible conversation from behind the curtain, and the heavy, oppressive heat of a Virginia summer. Or perhaps it wasn't the heat I felt so much as a blush, when I realized how ridiculous I must look, staring at Michael with my mouth hanging open. I really would have to see him act sometime, I decided.
"Think your cousin will like it?" he asked, reaching to answer the phone. "Be-Stitched. Yes, Mrs. Langslow, she's right here." He handed the phone to me. "Your mother. Something about peacocks?"
"Meg, dear," Mother trilled. "I have splendid news! Your cousin has found us some peacocks, but you'll have to go over there today to make the arrangements."
"Over where?" I said. "And why can't we just call?"
"He doesn't have a phone, apparently, or it's not working. I'm not sure which. And he won't take a reservation unless he has a cash deposit, so you'll have to go there immediately to make sure they're available. Think how terrible it would be if after all this we finally found the peacocks and someone else snapped them up just before you got there, which I'm sure could happen if anyone else finds out about them. There are two other weddings in town the same weekend mine is, and--"
"All right, Mother. I'll go and put a down payment on the peacocks."
I couldn't prevent Mother from giving me directions, which I ignored because she was sure to have gotten them mixed up. I called my cousin to get real directions, rescheduled all the other appointments on my list, and dashed off into the wilds of the county. Even with directions, I got lost half a dozen times. How can you turn right at a millet field if you have no idea what millet looks like? But I found the farm and only stepped in one pile of manure while I was there. The peacocks' owner agreed to bring them over a week or so before Samantha's wedding, so they'd have time to settle down, and leave them till a few days after Mother's wedding. I managed not to yawn during his lengthy stories about how he came to have a flock of peacocks and the difficulties of breeding them and how they were better than dogs for warning him whenever strangers came to the farm. And I left a deposit that would still have seemed excessive if the damned peacocks were gold-plated. Considering the cost involved, his lack of a telephone must have been sheer cussedness rather than a sign of economic hardship.
I was feeling very pleased with myself until bedtime, when I realized I'd spent the entire day running around in order to cross off just one item. I tried to reach Mrs. Thornhill, the calligrapher, so I could cross that off, but there was no answer. Again. Ah, well. Tomorrow was another day. I wondered, briefly, where Dad had been for the past several days, and what he had done or was doing with Great-Aunt Sophy.
Cool it, I told myself. Let Dad play detective. You have enough to do.