Christina tried to intervene. “Excuse me, ladies, but I think it might be best if we left Paula alone for a bit.”

Ruth was not deterred in the least. “Oh, my-no, dear. This is Paula’s special day. We want everything to be perfect.”

“I want to be left alone,” Paula muttered.

“Seriously,” Christina said, gently tugging at the ladies’ elbows. “Let’s give Paula some quiet time. Let her meditate a bit, so she can get in a serene and bridelike state of mind.”

“Oh, very well.” Ernestine brushed her hands together. “Do you have something blue, dear?”

Paula blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Blue. You must have something blue.”

“I thought white was the traditional bridal color.”

“Well, of course it is,” Ruth explained. “But a bride needs more than just a dress. You need something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.”

“Why?”

“Well… you just do. It’s traditional. All the great brides of literature did it. Don’t you ever read?”

“I’m a librarian,” Paula said. Her voice had acquired a decided edge. “I have, on occasion, read a book, yes.”

“Well then, you must understand. Most brides come equipped with something new-their dress. And they usually have something old, even if it’s just their skivvies. Something borrowed is easy to come up with, but something blue can be tricky. So I wanted to make sure you had something.”

“Well, I don’t. We’ll just have to do without.”

“Nonsense.” Ernestine opened the door to the sanctuary a crack. “Bruce!”

A moment later, Ernestine’s nephew, Bruce Ashour, entered the tiny room, decked out in a gray pinstripe with a red carnation on the lapel.

“Bruce? We need something blue. Quickly.”

Amazingly, Bruce appeared to have no problem comprehending this request. “Are you wearing your turquoise necklace, Ruth?”

The elderly woman shook her head no.

“Aunt Ernestine, what about that cerulean lapel pin?”

“Not wearing it.”

He turned his attention to Christina. “What about you? Are you wearing anything bluish?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Are you sure? What about undergarments?”

Paula’s face grew taut. “I am not wearing someone else’s underwear!”

Ruth snapped her fingers. “Hair ribbon.” She reached inside her purse and removed a blue bow.

“Look,” Paula said, trying unsuccessfully to maintain some semblance of composure, “I’ve just spent three hours at the beauty shop getting my hair fixed. It is perfect. Impenetrable. Bulletproof. I am not messing it up with a blue ribbon!”

“I’ll pin it to the underside of your dress,” Christina said. “No one will ever see it. Now please, ladies, I think we should all-”

The door opened again. A mustached man in his mid-thirties leaned in. “I need to talk to someone about the music.”

“Who is he?” Paula said, fairly ranting now.

“Organist. Choirmaster,” Christina whispered. “Paul Masterson.”

Masterson entered the room. As soon as he did, Christina saw Ernestine remove a small book from her purse and rifle through the pages.

Masterson was a tall man, thin and ascetic in appearance, but when he entered the tiny dressing room everyone was forced practically nose-to-nose. “I’ve seen the play list that was submitted, and I have some serious objections to some of these music selections.”

Paula’s eyelids closed. “What’s he talking about, Christina? I don’t know what he’s talking about. I can’t take much more of this.”

Christina grabbed Masterson by the shoulders. “Look, you’re going to have to find Ben Kincaid. He chose all the music.”

“I looked for him in the other dressing room. They said he hasn’t arrived yet.”

“He hasn’t arrived?” Paula squealed. “The best man hasn’t arrived?”

Christina tried to calm her. “That’s just Ben’s way, Paula. He’s never early. But he’ll be here. I’m sure…”

As if on cue, the door opened again. Ben stepped through the opening. “Is this where-?” An instant later, he realized he had stumbled into the women’s dressing room. His cheeks turned bright pink. “Oops. Excuse me.” He ducked back out again.

All six people crowded into the dressing room spoke at once. “Wait!”

Ben reopened the door a crack. “Ye-es?…”

Christina yanked Ben in, stuffing the tiny room to its limit.

“Can you breathe?” Paula asked, her face ashen. “Because I can’t really breathe…”

“Ben,” Christina said, “the music dude has problems with your play list.”

“It’s the wedding march. From A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Masterson said, sniffing. “It’s an offensive piece of music, inappropriate to the sacred sacrament of marriage. I won’t play it.”

“What’s he talking about?” Christina asked.

“He’s talking about ‘Here Comes the Bride,’ ” Ben explained. “The wedding march everyone knows and loves is Mendelssohn’s incidental music for the play. It’s used in a farce wedding scene-some people say it makes fun of the marriage ceremony. So highbrows and snobs refuse to play it. But the reality is, almost everyone expects to hear this song when the bride walks in, and as long as we’re not making fun of the marriage ceremony, what does it matter what music we play? Most people don’t know where the tune came from.”

“I know,” Masterson said. “I find it offensive. How can I pour my heart into a performance when I find the music reprehensible?”

“I can’t take it,” Paula muttered, pounding her head against the wall. “I just can’t take it anymore.” She would surely have fainted, if there’d been anywhere to faint.

Ben started to speak, but Christina intervened. “If you don’t mind, Ben, I think this is more up my alley.” She stood on her tiptoes-it was hard to appear commanding given that she was barely five foot one-and revved up the volume. “Now listen up! All of you! Paula needs some quiet time before this wedding starts, and she’s going to get it.” She turned toward the two older women. “You’ve been very helpful. Now scram.” She jabbed a finger into Masterson’s bony chest. “You’re going to play the Wedding March, and you’re not going to give us any grief about it.”

Masterson tucked in his chin. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Now get lost! All of you!”

Ben raised a finger. “Christina, I still need-”

“After the wedding, Ben. Go!”

Ben walked in circles around the narthex, trying to remember where the other dressing room was. Sad to say, even though he’d been going to this church for months, he still got lost sometimes. Not that the church was so large-it wasn’t. But Ben’s navigational abilities were severely limited. Christina said he needed a GPS navigator just to get from his living room to the kitchen.

As he passed down the large corridor that flanked the Sunday school classes, he heard a commotion at the far end.

“I’m telling you, this is not the place!” he heard a familiar voice say.

“It never is with you. You’re always trying to buy time.”

“I’m performing a wedding, Kate. It’s not appropriate-”

“I’ve had it with your excuses! This has got to end! I can’t go on like this anymore. It’s wrong. It’s-it’s evil!”

Ben peered around the corner. Father Beale, decked out in his ministerial robes, was staring at a woman in her mid-thirties-Kate McGuire, he thought. She was the senior warden and had been in attendance during the ecclesiastical trial.

“It is not evil. You need to open your heart, broaden your mind-”

“Don’t lecture me, you sixties throwback.”

“It is not evil.”

“Well, let’s see what the bishop says about that, shall we?”

Beale’s eyes hardened. “Are you threatening me?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder. By now, the fight had attracted an audience of five or six parishioners. He needed to break this up and fast.

“Excuse me,” Ben said, strolling toward them as if nothing unusual had been taking place. “Can you tell me where the men’s dressing room is?”