Page 53 of A Pack for the Wedding
"Everyone loves Hayward's," Harper agrees, looking frantic. "Hayward's is a staple. Hayward's has been here since 1987 and it is a pillar of this community. Except that today's lunch special—"
She presses both hands over her mouth. For a second I think she's going to cry.
"The potato salad," she manages.
"What about it?" Beth asks.
"All of them ate it. Every single one. It came free with the brisket."
I look at her confused. "Sorry, I don't see where—"
"They're all sick, Arthur. All ten of them.Violently."
"How violently are we talking?" Beth asks.
"Craig's wife called Ben to tell him he was, and I quote"—Harper holds up a finger—"'pissing from his ass.'"
Dead silence.
"So," Beth says.
"So they're all out." Harper's voice cracks. "They formally revoked their volunteer commitment. Craig's wife used the wordrevoked. Like it's adriver's license. And my phone has been blowing up for the last hour with texts from the rest of them. They are livid."
"They can't actually be mad at Ben," I say. "He didn't make the potato salad."
Harper wheels on me. "Arthur.Arthur. Call Craig right now and tell him that while he's on the toilet. Use your logic. See how it goes."
I put my hands up.
"Where's Ben now?" Beth asks.
Harper laughs. It's not a good laugh. "Ben is in our downstairs bathroom. Because Benalsoate the potato salad. He atetwo servingsbecause he said the paprika really gave it a kick."
"Christ," I say.
"So now I have no crew, and no Ben." She checks her phone. "Five days. Five days, Beth. This stag and doe is supposed to pay for the caterer for the actual wedding. If we don't raise this money—"
Her voice gives out.
"It's a massive hall," she whispers. "It needs staging. Tables. A sound system. And an ungodly amount of beer kegs carried in by hand because the loading dock has been broken sinceApril."
She looks at Beth. Then at me. Then back at Beth.
"Will you—," she says. Very quietly. "Will you help me on Saturday? Please?"
I'm already moving. I pull a glass from the cabinet, pour two fingers of bourbon, walk it over to Harper, and take the untouched tea off the coffee table in the same motion.
"Here," I say. "Drink this."
She takes it. Sips. Winces.
"Saturday morning," I say. "What time do you need us there?"
Harper blinks. "What?"
"The hall. What time."
"I—seven? The doors open at six for the fundraiser, so setup has to be done by five, which means—"
