I laughed. "But why ever not, Raquel?"
She looked sidelong at Hamish, who was watching his fiancée with amused curiosity. "Rune, don't."
“Something I should know, my love?" Hamish asked, grinning. "I feel like there's a story here."
"You were back home in Scotland, visiting your family over the holidays, before we were serious." She shrugged, waved a hand. "I got a little messy. No story."
I cackled at her response. "No story? I beg to differ."
"Well then?" Hamish said, covering Raquel's mouth as she tried to protest. "Do tell."
I spent the rest of the walk telling a truthful but embellished version of the story, which involved Raquel, Jell-O shots, and a dance-off, which ended up with Raquel covered in body paint, glitter, and nothing else except her underwear. The more I told, the harder everyone laughed…except Raquel, who was laughing while also protesting certain embellishments.
"Okay, first of all," she said, pointing a finger in my face, "I had pasties on! And second, I did not twerk. I'm a dancer. There's nothing wrong with twerking, as a thing, but that bitch challenged me to a dance-off! I brought my A-game, and my A-game does not include twerking."
"The only thing I'm no exactly clear on," Hamish said, "is how a dance-off led you to being body-painted and covered in glitter." Glitter ended up sounding more like gl-IH-rrr, with a curling roll of the r-sound.
"Don't worry about it, baby," Raquel said. "The reason is I was wasted and making damn fool choices. And my friends, instead of stopping me, thought it'd be funny to egg my drunk ass on."
I slung an arm around her shoulders. "Raquel, you know we wouldn't have let you do anything too bad. You did indeed have pasties on, and underwear, and even though you were three sheets to the wind, you still kicked that girl's ass in the dance-off."
"Damn right I did," she muttered.
We arrived at the restaurant, then. It was designed to look like a hunting lodge, with lots of heavy live-edge logs, a green metal roof, and lots of glass. Inside had the feel of an upscale steakhouse—low lighting, deep booths of rich leather, tea lights on the table, a quiet, slow-moving atmosphere, and a live pianist playing tinkling covers of top pop hits. Servers in all black with long aprons glided this way and that, carrying round trays of drinks and oval trays of food. Conversation was a low hubbub at best.
Raquel's eyes were gleaming. "This place is gorgeous, Duncan!"
He shrugged. "Feels weird to say thanks, since I didn't have anything to do with it. I was only a year or so out of high school when Delia moved up here to revamp this place." He looked around, assessing, and nodded. "It is very nice. Looks like it's running well, too." He paused. "Ah, here's Rebecca."
A woman in her early thirties approached us—she had black hair, blue eyes, and was wearing a black pencil skirt, low pumps, and a silk maroon blouse; she had a clipboard in one arm.
"Duncan! Great to see you again!" She greeted Duncan with a professional handshake. "And you must be Hamish and Raquel. I'm Rebecca, the manager. Welcome to Badd's Fine Dining, you guys. I have to say, we're so pleased to host your wedding. We have everything ready to go. Would you like to see?"
Raquel nodded eagerly. "Yes, I would, very much."
She showed us the kitchen and introduced us to Anton, the head chef, and then escorted us to the back room—a capacious space big enough to hold at least a hundred people. Long tables lined a far wall, draped in spotless white tablecloths, topped with trays waiting for burners and food. A dozen large round tables dotted the middle of the room, also draped in white, and a temporary parquet dance floor took up a quarter of the space at one end of the room, with the DJ booth nearby. A set of double doors led out to the back patio, which was where the wedding itself would be held. The restaurant was at the edge of town, on a large lot with a wide swath of verdant lawn behind the building. An arch wreathed in white roses stood at one end of the green space, with several rows of folding chairs facing it, an aisle running between the blocks of chairs to the double doors.
Raquel stopped at the arch, looking around with watery eyes. "It's perfect! It's even better than our venue in Ketchikan. Isn't it, Hamish?"
Hamish nodded, his expression shuttered and serious—hiding his emotions, I think. "Aye, it is. It's right lovely. You've done a fine, fine job, Rebecca, and our thanks to you and your staff for puttin’ this on in such short notice."
Rebecca beamed with pride. "For a long time, the back room was wasted space—it was originally designed to be an extra dining space, but no one ever wanted to be this far from the main room. It was my idea to host weddings here. The fortunate thing for you is that we had a last-minute cancellation, beyond the point of refunding and returning everything, so we had all of this on hand already. It was just a matter of setting it up." She looked around, taking in the space. “Is there anything you'd like changed, removed, or added?"
Raquel shook her head, sniffling and swiping a finger under her eyes. “No, no. It's absolutely perfect. The centerpieces are just adorable."
Each table, back in the event room, held a glass jar filled with tiny twinkling white string lights, baby's breath, and a live lily, surrounded by pink rose petals. Once evening had fallen and the lights were dimmed, the effect would be magical, I was sure.
Raquel, Hamish, and Rebecca headed to the kitchen to go over the menu, which left Duncan and me to our own devices.
It was awkwardly silent for a few minutes.
"Uh, you…you don't remember making out, do you?" Duncan asked, eventually, sounding sheepish. “Because I don't. Sadly."
I shook my head, wincing at him. "No, I don't either."
He sighed in relief. "Glad I'm not the only one. I'd have really felt like a dick."
I glanced at him. "Duncan, be real with me. Why are you doing all this for people you don't know?"
