Nine
“WHAT is your plan to deal with tonight?” Mrs. Meyer asks me. As if this whole debacle was from the inner workings of my evil empire.
“Well, certainly no groom is not ideal,” I say, “but think of what a great story this will make for your grandchildren.”
Mrs. Meyer’s face wrinkles like I’ve just handed her a fresh pile of dog poo. “Even if I were to ever have grandchildren, I would never tell them such a horrible story.”
“Oh, you mean, because your daughter shot your son-in-law in the leg with an arrow the day before their wedding?”
“Sam McKenzie. I thought that was you,” Mrs. Meyer says, pivoting to face him. He smiles cheekily. “You were an odd-looking boy, but I’m glad to see you’ve grown into a man who knows when to zip his lip.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Meyer. It
