“Are you substituting your judgment for theirs?”

“Guess that’s not fair,” I mumbled. “I just don’t feel comfortable at weddings and it’s reduced me to whining. What say we go for some food, a little small talk, then get the hell out?”

“Now, there’s a plan I won’t argue with,” she said.

We approached the wide stone stairs leading up to the house, and the sounds of stringed instruments drifted out through the open front door. Just as we reached the steps, the limo carrying the bride and groom arrived. Travis helped Megan out of the backseat, and Roxanne appeared in all her greenness from out of nowhere. She eagerly lifted Megan’s gown to keep it from dragging on the pavement. They all went inside to a round of applause.

Not only was the wedding photographer busy doing his job, the hat lady was standing right behind him snapping her own pictures. Seeing her reminded me of my mission: to seek out all guests and get their signatures and well wishes in the embossed book clutched at my side. Not exactly a job for Superman, but I felt obligated. “Come on, Kate. I have to catch up with that woman in the brown hat.”

But before we reached her, she disappeared into the throng following Megan and Travis inside. When we reached the front door, Megan’s mother stepped out to greet us.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” said Sylvia Beadford. “I see you have the book.” She nodded at the album under my arm.

An apple-shaped, overly made-up woman, she wore a turquoise silk suit that complemented her dusky pink complexion. But Sylvia’s ruby lipstick was smeared and her rose corsage was already wilting. The frosted hair hadn’t wilted though. She had enough hairspray on those beauty-shop curls to put a new hole in the ozone layer. From her tense demeanor, I guessed she was having far less of a good time than those inside whose laughter nearly overpowered the music. Note to self: Never have girl babies who put you through wedding torture.