“What happened?”
“My venue was canceled without my knowledge.”
Silence.
“Where are you?”
“Marlow House.”
“How many guests?”
“Two hundred.”
“How much time?”
“Eighty-five minutes before doors should open.”
I heard a chair move.
“Stonebridge is empty. The chairs are stacked, the kitchen is clean, and the courtyard lights haven’t been tested since Thursday.”
“Is the emergency-use agreement active?”
“It is.”
“I’m activating it.”
“You’ll need crews.”
“I have crews.”
“You’ll need insurance confirmation.”
“In the binder.”
“You’ll need temporary staffing.”
“I’ll find them.”
Margaret drew in a breath.
“Then come build your wedding.”
I called my deputy, Marcus Bell.
He had worked beside me for six years and could turn confusion into assignments before most people finished explaining why they were worried.
“I need a complete relocation,” I said.
“What event?”
“Mine.”
He was silent for one second.
Then his voice changed into operations mode.
“Current venue?”
“Marlow House. Unavailable.”
“New venue?”
“Stonebridge.”
“Guest count?”
“Two hundred.”
“Doors?”
“Four.”
“Ceremony?”
“Four-thirty.”
“How long do we have?”
“Eighty-five minutes.”
“Send the vendor list.”
“It’s already in your shared folder.”
“What am I not asking?”
“The original venue was canceled by Patricia Hail. Do not accept instructions from her, Walter, or Madison.”
“Understood.”
“Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t ask if I’m all right.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Thank you.”
“I was going to ask whether you still want the peonies.”
I looked at my bouquet.
“Absolutely.”
“Then we have a wedding.”
The next ten minutes moved the way emergencies always moved when the right people had clear information.
Marcus called the caterer.
Nora divided the guest list among the bridesmaids and sent one calm message:
Venue update: Stonebridge Barn, 84 Mill Road. Same ceremony time. Everything remains on schedule. Please proceed directly to the new location.
Camille contacted the musicians.
The florist redirected two vans that were still waiting for access instructions from Marlow House.
Our photographer was already on the road. She changed course and offered to call the videographer.
I contacted the transportation company scheduled to shuttle elderly guests from two hotels. The dispatcher updated the destination in less than three minutes.
Dad stood beside Walter’s sedan watching us.
“Where are you going?”
“To my wedding.”
“Patricia may already have one arranged.”
“I’m not marrying Adrian inside a ceremony designed to exclude our friends.”
“You’re making a public issue out of a family decision.”
“She canceled a signed contract and kept my refund.”
“Maybe she planned to return it.”
“She wrote that she wanted to record me seeing the locked doors.”
His expression changed.
I showed him the messages.
He read them without touching the phone.
“That might not mean what you think.”
“What else could it mean?”
“Patricia can be dramatic.”
“So can a locked building.”
He looked toward the empty venue.
“What do you expect me to do?”
The question sounded almost sincere.