But to the mother of the groom and host of the party, it was a meaningless turn of phrase meant to guarantee that a few guests would wear Hawaiian shirts, board shorts, and flip-flops despite the real, mailed invitations meant to indicate an elevated surf event. The theme did allow Abigail an excuse to wear a blouse splashed with color, velvet pants, and a bedazzling puffer vest because while the surf club was chic, it was also unheated. She had spent hours in resale shops buying up the bits and pieces for the wedding weekend. She’d taken Lola from the senior center with her, which helped enormously. Lola was an unrelenting vintage shopper who knew to check the backs of shelves and other unexpected spots for the good items other shoppers had hidden until they could come back later. The strategy paid off: a stunning Roberto Cavalli blouse hidden under a drab gray blazer. Lola had even managed to find some vintage Hermès ties for George at astonishingly low prices in the bargain bin. Abigail had emptied her entire secret bank account to outfit the family for multiple events, and she felt it was worth every penny.

Was it worth every penny to sell her mother’s Queen Anne maple highboy to cover the cost of the lobster tacos for tonight’s guests? Probably not. But, in all honesty, Abigail was getting rather fatigued by all the proper, early American antiques that decorated her Fair Harbor home. Where was the fun in mahogany? She was looking forward to the day they could sell the house, ditch Aunt Eleanor’s period pieces, and move to a condo with comfortable couches and cozy fabrics.

Ping. Another text from Madison alerting that all the latest models had the rain starting after the event. “More weather updates!” Abigail mocked.

“It’s fairly predictable.”

“What is? The weather?”

“The atmospheric river,” said George, who monitored the weather as a hobby. Even the weather in places he had never been to and was never going to visit made it onto his daily rounds. George was your man if you wanted to know the temperature in Denali National Park at any given moment. Or the precipitation expected in Pompeii. He’d been monitoring the storms out in the Pacific for months because of El Niño. “These sort of extreme weather events are happening with more frequency, and this is the season for heavy rain here. But most of the guests live nearby or are already here, the ceremony and dinner are inside, and we have a tent! The dancing can carry on. Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he finished. And then taking in his wife in her silk blouse and velvet pants, he kissed her on the lips with the passion he usually saved for Saturday night.

“What was that for?” Abigail said, pulling away and smoothing her clothing and hair.