Last Summer in Louisbourg by Clare Mowat Page A

mood for…”
    â€œFor praying?”
    â€œWouldn’t you like to go? You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes, but we don’t usually go to church on Tuesdays.”
    â€œWell, it wouldn’t hurt. I bet the kids would like it for a change. Okay, who wants to come with me to the chapel?” Andrea asked enthusiastically.
    A chorus of agreement greeted the idea of going somewhere. Justine made no further comment. Possibly Andrea had a serious problem, she thought, or a terrible secret she couldn’t discuss with anyone. Maybe she needed to sit in the chapel and meditate, although why she would want to do so with a dozen young children tagging along was something of a mystery. They wrapped the children in their capes and hats and soon they were all trudging through the drizzle towards the chapel.
    When they reached the chapel, everyone except Andrea was surprised to see that the little church was anything but a haven of tranquility. Andrea managed to look appropriately amazed at the blaze of lights, the camera equipment, and the glamorous Deborah Cluett standing outside the door, dressed to kill, and—wouldn’t you know it—smoking a cigarette.
    â€œHi there!” she greeted them, as if they were old friends. “This is my wedding day. Would you like to watch me get married?” she invited, as she butted her cigarette on the wet ground underneath a dainty white shoe. Her wedding dress was even more spectacular than the dress she had worn the previous day. It was the ivory colour of old lace, with an embroidered bodice and a long, full skirt that billowed out over a hooped petticoat. A delicate veil hung from the top of her wig to her smooth shoulders. Andrea would have given a lot to try on that costume. She wondered where it was kept when Deborah wasn’t wearing it.
    â€œSure is a beautiful dress,” Andrea managed to say.
    â€œYes, but I wish it was more comfortable. It has a whalebone corset inside the waist, and I can hardly breathe it’s so tight,” Deborah complained.
    The bride returned to the chapel, while an entourage of children and Andrea and Justine stood and watched from the doorway. Deborah took her place in front of the altar, while her attentive audience stood silently against the back wall.
    â€œAndrea,” whispered Justine sympathetically, “it’s not very peaceful here right now. We can come back some other time.”
    â€œIt’s fine. Really,” Andrea reassured her, then turned to the children. “Now not a peep out of anyone, understand? This is a wedding, and if we’re very quiet we can watch them film it.”
    In front of the altar stood a gaunt-looking actor dressed as a priest. He was being fussed over by Charlene, the make-up artist, who kept dabbing more powder on his bald head. Nearby Mr. Grundy, the director, was engaged in some sort of argument with a frowning Penny Goodman. Deborah, the bride, was sitting on a folding chair blotting her hairline with a paper towel and complaining about her itchy wig. The governor, who was about to marry her, was immaculately dressed in a royal blue brocade coat and those same clingy white tights. However, he looked as if he couldn’t have cared less about the wedding. He was sitting on the top step of the pulpit, leafing through a sports magazine. Near him stood Calvin Jefferson Lee. He was looking in the opposite direction, as if something were about to happen in the farthest corner of the chapel.
    Justine nudged Andrea and whispered, “They certainly didn’t waste any time getting married, did they? They only fell in love on Friday and here they are getting married on Tuesday.”
    â€œHonestly!” giggled Andrea. “They don’t film scenes in the sequence that the audience sees them. In the story, there could have been a long time, maybe a whole year, between when they first met and when they finally got married.