A Certain Mr. Rit Co Chapter 3

Chapter Three: “I Do”… I Think?

The day of the Vanderbilt-Price wedding dawned with the cruel, cloudless perfection of a postcard. To Ellie, standing ramrod straight at the entrance to The Aviary, it felt less like weather and more like a taunt. The atmosphere inside the glass dome was a pressurized mix of perfume, damp soil, and raw panic. Her headset crackled with a steady stream of disaster.

“Team Lead, the capybara handler is insisting the ‘flower crowns are demeaning.’”
“Ellie,the sustainable ice sculpture of the couple’s favorite mountain is… sweating aggressively.”
“The quartet’s cellist has developed a suspicious rash from the‘wild’ meadow. She claims it’s poison oak.”

Ellie’s responses were clipped, digital, and betrayed nothing of the low-grade tremor in her hands. “Tell the handler the crowns are spun from ethically sourced kelp and are a sign of respect. Point a fan at the mountain. And for God’s sake, give the cellist the emergency antihistamines and tell her to play from behind a fern.”

Beside her, a study in disheveled calm, Leo observed the controlled meltdown with the air of a naturalist watching a fascinating colony of ants. S;ren was, for a miracle, asleep in his bag, and Benedict sat faithfully at Ellie’s side, sensing the tension in the line of her leg.

“You know,” Leo mused, sipping from a stolen glass of champagne intended for the groom, “in some cultures, last-minute disasters are considered good luck. They appease the gods of irony.”

“In this culture,” Ellie snapped, her eyes tracking a florist who was trimming a rose with alarming aggression, “they are considered grounds for a full refund and a scathing review on The Knot. The ceremony begins in twenty-seven minutes. Why are you not in your assigned observation post?”

“The view is better here. And I have a front-row seat to the main event: The Ellie Harmon Containment Field.” He gave her a grin that was all teeth and trouble.

The guests began to filter in, a murmuring river of silk and bespoke tailoring, their eyes wide with delight at the whimsical, verdant setting. Everything was, against all odds, almost ready. The capybaras—two placid, barrel-shaped creatures named Guava and Tapioca—had been coaxed into their kelp crowns and tiny, velvet ring-pouches. They now sat by the bamboo archway, chewing placidly on some decorative grasses. The dyed-to-match-lichen doves cooed in a gilded cage, looking vaguely embarrassed. The mountain ice sculpture glistened under a strategically placed spotlight, its meltwater channeled discreetly into a pitcher for the cocktails. It was, Ellie thought with a desperate surge of hope, going to work.

The processional music began, a string quartet version of a Bj;rk song, played from behind a large, non-irritating palm. The guests hushed. Astrid appeared, a vision in deconstructed ivory silk that resembled a magnificent cloud collision, on the arm of her beaming father. Julian waited at the altar, wiping a joyful tear, looking profoundly moved and slightly sunburned.

Ellie allowed herself a single, shallow breath. This was it. The pivot point. The moment chaos was banished, and flawlessness took the stage.

It all went wrong in the space of a single, perfect note from the viola.

Perhaps it was the unfamiliar humidity. Perhaps it was the lingering scent of cat on Leo’s bag. Or perhaps S;ren, that tiny anarchist, simply sensed that the universe had reached a peak of ordered pretension that demanded a response.

A soft snick echoed in Ellie’s heightened awareness. The sound of a zipper.

S;ren emerged from the bag like a grey ghost. He blinked once at the assembled majesty, his tail giving a single, intrigued twitch. Then his eyes locked onto the velvet ring-pouch dangling from Guava the capybara’s neck.

What happened next unfolded with the precision of a Rube Goldberg machine designed by a slapstick deity.

Phase One: The Feline Offensive. S;ren, a bolt of silent determination, shot towards Guava. The capybara, a creature of profound zen, merely blinked its watery eyes.

Phase Two: Canine Cavalry. Benedict, ever loyal, interpreted this as the kitten being in peril from the giant, serene guinea pig. With a booming “PROTECT!” bark, he lunged forward, his leash slipping from Leo’s distracted hand.

Phase Three: Rodent Redirection. Guava, finally stirred from its meditation by a 70-pound dog bearing down, emitted a low, worried “honk” and waddled with surprising speed directly towards the altar, knocking over a delicate stand holding the unity sand ceremony.

Phase Four: Avian Anarchy. The sudden bark, honk, and shower of colored sand startled the lichen-dyed doves. The handler fumbled. The cage door swung open. Six confused, blue-green birds exploded into the air in a flurry of panic and misplaced plumage.

Phase Five: The Domino Effect. One dove, disoriented, flew straight into the sweating ice sculpture. The sculpture, already compromised by its own existential crisis, gave a deep, sorrowful groan and listed to the side. Its meltwater, no longer channeled, cascaded directly onto the cellist, who shrieked and dropped her bow. Another dove, seeking refuge, landed atop the bamboo archway, which swayed, shedding petals onto the now-sand-covered, damp, and bird-adorned couple.

For a moment, there was absolute, stunned silence, broken only by the drip of melting mountain and the soft honk of a capybara now hiding behind the officiant.

Ellie’s world had dissolved into a high-definition nightmare. Her blueprint was not just on fire; it had been put through a woodchipper, set to music, and was now being performed by doves.

Then, a sound cut through the shock.

Julian Price threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was a deep, genuine, belly-shaking sound of pure, unadulterated joy. Astrid stared at her damp, sandy, bird-befriended fianc;, and her sharp, artistic face melted into the most radiant smile Ellie had ever seen. She began to laugh too, a sparkling, musical counterpoint to Julian’s boom.

The tension in the dome burst like a soap bubble. A guest chuckled. Then another. Soon, the entire conservatory was shaking with relieved, hysterical, heartfelt laughter. Someone started applauding.

Through the haze of her professional ruin, Ellie saw it. The raw, unfiltered, utterly real moment. Astrid reached out, not caring about her silk, and plucked a blue-green dove feather from Julian’s hair. He took her sandy hand and kissed it, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Leo appeared at Ellie’s side, slightly breathless, a contrite S;ren now tucked under his arm. “I… have no words. That was a masterpiece of cascading failure.”

Ellie couldn’t speak. She could only watch as the officiant, a wonderfully pragmatic woman, cleared her throat, stepped over a pile of unity sand, and raised her voice above the dwindling giggles.

“Well,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I believe that was a more spirited call to order than any of us anticipated. Shall we proceed? Julian, do you take this wonderfully unpredictable, feather-adorned woman to be your wife?”

The vows were exchanged over the gentle drip-drip-drip of the late, great mountain and the contented munching of a capybara. The rings, slightly damp from Guava’s impromptu bath, were slid onto fingers. The kiss was cheered with a fervor usually reserved for victorious underdogs.

As the recessional began—a slightly ragged but triumphant march—Astrid caught Ellie’s eye. She didn’t look angry. She looked blissful. She leaned over and whispered as she passed, “Ellie, darling. It was perfect. Truly, madly, unforgettable. Thank you.”

The crowd began to move towards the cocktail area, buzzing with the incredible story they would tell for years. Ellie stood frozen in the wreckage of her perfect plan.

Leo gently nudged her with his elbow. He held out a glass of champagne, pilfered from a passing tray. “Managed spontaneity,” he said softly, toasting her. “You nailed it.”

Ellie looked from the laughing couple disappearing into the crowd, to the chaotic, beautiful mess of the ceremony site, to Leo’s infuriating, insightful face. Slowly, very slowly, she took the glass. She didn’t drink. She just stared at the bubbles rising in a frantic, joyful, completely unmanaged stream towards the surface.

Somewhere, a dove cooed. Benedict gave a happy sigh. And S;ren, the philosopher-king, closed his eyes and purred, his work here done. The blueprint was ashes. But the story, against all odds, was a smash hit.