School of Fortune

Chapter One The elastic on Wyeth McCoy's sleep mask snapped just as his nightmare reached a horrific climax. In his dream he had been best man at a squillion-dollar wedding. The bride had arrived late, drunk, then had fallen into a pew while barreling up the aisle. Her nosebleed left hideous splotches on a gown previously owned by Elizabeth Tayl∨ the sight of blood caused the groom to become sick all over his powder-blue tuxedo. When the organist wouldn't stop playing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," people began pelting him with their cell phones until he fled, taking all four harpists with him. The preacher couldn't remember the names of the couple getting married and neither could Wyeth, a humiliating snafu since he had known the groom since childhood. Nonetheless the ceremony stumbled on until Wyeth, desperately searching for the wedding ring, discovered it dangling from his own pierced earlobe. The mother of the bride began pulling it with all her might, tearing it free just as his sleep mask gave up the ghost. Wyeth awoke with a scream to find the sheets damp with his fear. His ear hurt where the ruptured elastic had stung it. His sleep mask lodged uselessly over his nose. However, grateful to be experiencing the light of dawn, he poured himself a glass of sweet vermouth from the bottle at his bedside. Sipping, he revisited his nightmare, the seventh in seven nights. Always a ruined wedding, always ending in a scream. Always the same mother of the bride. Even now that he was safe in the real world, the image of her perfect blond bouffant and glacial blue eyes made him shudder: that witch was Thayne Walker, the most intimidating woman he had ever met. Wyeth poured himself a second glass of courage. Only a fool ignored his nightmares. Today he would put an end to them. As he showered away the night's terrors, Wyeth rehearsed his resignation speech. The shorter the better. In and out, like a dagger. He'd be gone before she found anything to throw at him. "Madam," he orated to the swirling steam. "I regret to inform you that, due to personal reasons which I am not at liberty to disclose, I can no longer oversee your daughter's nuptials. You must immediately engage another wedding coordinator. I wish you well. I am certain this will be the most riveting event in Dallas since the Kennedy assassination." Perfect! He left the shower. Wyeth repeated his speech half a dozen times as he donned his best linen suit and a supersized red bow tie. Decades ago, when he believed he would be the greatest Hamlet since Sir Laurence Olivier, Wyeth had studied drama. It hadn't been a total loss because now, with each syllable, his classical enunciation was coming back to him. Soon he'd sound like Shakespeare himself. Again Wyeth shuddered, remembering that Hamlet hadn't exactly punched out in a cloud of glory. When the last drop of vermouth was gone, Wyeth strode to his beloved Hummer, the only one in the country (if not the world) painted metallic lilac. He felt this was a brilliant artistic statement showing his creative side while shielding him from aggressive idiots in SUVs. He was worth protecting: Wyeth was not only the whirlwind behind Happily Ever After, Inc., creme de la creme of wedding coordinators, but he was a potent good-luck charm. After twenty years in the business, not a single one of the weddings he had put together had ended in divorce. Was that a world record or what? Naturally the word had spread. Now superstitious and superwealthy clients on every continent hired him to make their unions a permanent reality, and Wyeth always delivered. He ran a fond hand over the gold letters on his carBrown, Amanda is the author of 'School of Fortune ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780312366735 and ISBN 0312366736.