The Wedding Guests Are All Weather

How it begins

The aunt was expected at two, with scattered showers.

Nora checked the guest list.

The uncle arrived at two fifteen as a warm front.

The bride's father had been described only as a developing situation.

She put down the folder and called Lena.

"Is this a joke?"

"Which part?"

"The forecast."

A long silence.

"Has it started?"

Outside the marquee, a small gray cloud waited beside the welcome sign.

It wore a lavender hat.

Nora had organized weddings in barns, boats and a disused observatory. She had dealt with missing rings, nervous horses and a groom who discovered a serious problem with the idea of marriage during the starter.

Weather was usually an inconvenience.

It did not usually ask where to leave its handbag.

"Aunt Ruth?" she said.

The cloud gave a little wet cough.

"I hope I'm not early."

A single drop fell onto the place cards.

Nora moved them.

Lena arrived carrying her shoes. Her dress was still in its bag. She looked at the cloud with the fond exhaustion of someone greeting a familiar relative.

"You came."

"Of course."

"I thought you might not."

The drizzle thickened.

Nora understood, then, why the guest list did not say names.

Not because the people had become weather.

Because Lena had been expecting the weather for years.

At the gate, a sharp gust lifted the marquee flap.

A man-shaped patch of bright sky entered without casting a shadow.

Lena went very still.

Nora looked at the table plan.

She had placed the developing situation beside the scattered showers.

This, she suspected, would require more than an extra umbrella.

She took a pencil.

"Tell me," she said, "who actually wants to sit together."

Lena looked relieved for the first time that morning.

Outside, Aunt Ruth's rain softened.

It did not stop.

Nobody asked it to.