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me in shock.
    I’d come to a stop in the center of the platform, directly before a wild-eyed Dr. Allen.
    Beneath me, wood groaned audibly.
    The floor dipped, suddenly bouncy and insubstantial.
    “Everyone off the altar!” Matching action to words, I hot-stepped for the safety of solid ground, worried with every footfall that the whole thing would implode and take me down with it. Hi, Shelton, and Ben bailed immediately as well.
    The rest of the wedding party stood frozen like statues. Even Dr. Allen.
    “I’d hop to it,” Hi advised, pointing to several drooping planks in the center of the altar. “Unless you
want
to be on that thing when it collapses.”
    His words did the trick. With a curse, Eric DuBois leapt from the platform. Then herd instinct took over: the others raced down like lemmings, groomsmen shouting incoherently, bridesmaids struggling for balance as they navigated the narrow steps in their heels.
    As he crossed the center of the altar, a section of flooring separated beneath Dr. Allen’s feet. He tripped and fell forward, and only Ben’s quick reflexes saved the day. He caught the elderly priest’s arm and helped him safely down to the grass.
    We formed a ragged, panting line at the foot of the altar.
    Shouts erupted in the gallery. Whitney’s head whipped side to side in a panic.
    “What’s going on?” Kit hissed, staring at the unstable platform.
    Ben shed his jacket, jogged around the altar, and knelt in the grass. Hinges squeaked as he opened some sort of hatch on its backside. Before anyone could question what he was doing, Ben wiggled through the opening and disappeared.
    “Wha . . . wha . . .” Whitney seemed unable to form a coherent thought.
    No one else tried.
    Seconds ticked past, and the crowd grew restless. Mrs. Taylor began grumbling loudly to another member of the Magnolia League, and Whitney’s face crumpled.
    Then Ben’s voice carried from beneath the woodwork. “Found the problem! Somebody get my dad!”
    “What’s the deal?” Hi yelled, as Tom Blue circled the altar and, with a sigh, got down on his knees and shimmied under the structure.
    “The pins fell out!” Ben shouted, a note of incredulity in his voice. “The central joins aren’t locked into place. We’re lucky this thing didn’t fall apart, but it’s an easy fix. Shove them back in and we’re good. Give us five minutes.”
    “Uh, thanks, Ben!” Kit called, then he turned to address his guests. “Slight mechanical issue, folks. Won’t take a second to fix. Don’t worry, we’re still getting married!”
    Chuckles from the gallery. Rueful shrugs. Kit hurried to a member of the wait staff, and, moments later, trays of champagne flutes began circulating the thirsty crowd. The delay became a cocktail break. Everyone relaxed.
    Shelton and Hi sidled over to my side, consternation plain on their faces.
    “The pins
dropped
out?” Hi scoffed. “Who put this together, Stevie Wonder?”
    A cold feeling swept over me. “Weird, right? And right after the flower thing inside . . .”
    “What do you mean?” Shelton froze in the process of cleaning his glasses. “You think somebody did that stuff on purpose?”
    I didn’t have a chance to answer. Ben popped up behind the altar, followed more slowly by his father. The pair wiped grass from their pant legs as they swung back around the platform, wearing matching grins.
    “Done!” Ben said proudly. “Easy, honestly. Two pins just needed to be reinserted.”
    “Everyone take your seats!” Kit waved the wedding party back to their places. I stepped up slowly, testing my weight. But the Blues were right—the footing was firm and true.
    Thank goodness we’d noticed in time. Another disaster averted.
    The cold feeling returned.
    I don’t believe in coincidence.
    In the center of the altar, Whitney smoothed her dress, breathing deeply as she attempted to regain her composure. Kit squeezed her hand, planted a kiss on her cheek.
    Everyone was back in