“Good idea. Much as I hate to agree with Holt, I do kind of feel like a Cinderella relegated to the back of the house for menial tasks.”

I wandered out into the family room, my drink in hand. The string quartet had been set up in here, but most folks were in the adjoining great room to my left. The musicians had taken a break, and the noise of multiple conversations in both rooms filled the air. A fire crackled in the fireplace and a champagne fountain with golden liquid bubbling out of pitchers held by cherubs sat on a table perpendicular to the windows. Plates filled with slices of the now-mutilated tiered white cake surrounded the fountain.

I noticed Roxanne speaking with the violinist in a corner to my right. I knew he was the violinist because he had his instrument clutched to him like a life jacket. Roxanne’s stringy brown hair made me wonder if she’d sprayed her head with Pam rather than Final Net, and the violinist’s body language brought the image of a treed possum to mind. Nothing pretty about that scene.

But James and Travis had them beat. The new father-in-law and son-in-law were outside on the deck that overlooked a covered oval swimming pool. Either the wind had stung their faces an angry crimson, or both their blood pressures were sky-high. James kept poking his finger into Travis’s silver-vested chest.

Then Travis glanced back toward the house, took hold of his father-in-law’s elbow, and led him toward the other end of the deck.

I immediately scanned the room for Megan, feeling protective all of a sudden. No bride should have her wedding day ruined by some silly family dispute that probably could have waited until the appropriate time. That’s what Thanksgiving and Christmas are for, right? I soon spotted her talking to her uncle Graham in the next room.

I made my way around clusters of guests engaged in animated conversations or playing with their digital cameras. I reached Megan and her uncle in time to hear Graham Beadford loudly proclaim he was related to Thomas Jefferson by way of a different mother than Sally Hemmings, a “damn prettier” slave girl, according to him. For Megan’s sake, I hoped no one was videotaping this embarrassing moment. Uncle Graham was so drunk he’d probably grab a snake and try to kill a stick.