“That’s right,” Branson interjected. “This is Stephanie and I’m Branson.”
“I’m George. I’m the wedding director here.” He jotted down their names. “Mr. Sampson told me to take special care of you two. I understand you want the super bonus wedding package, right?”
“Whatever it takes to get signed pictures and a video with Elvis.”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed, her fingernails biting into his skin. “What’re you doing?” she muttered from the side of her mouth.
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it,” he muttered back.
“Let’s take care of the financial details first,” George said, with a bright smile. “And if you’ll give me your marriage license now, I’ll be sure it gets signed. If we wait ‘til the end, couples sometimes forget. It’s not legal unless Priscilla signs it.”
“Priscilla? As in Elvis’ wife?” Branson asked.
“That’s right,” he said, as he swiped Branson’s credit card and handed it back. “Our wedding official is really named Priscilla. Only her last name is Parsons. She’s considered getting it legally changed to Presley. Wouldn’t that be cool? To have your marriage certificate signed by Priscilla Presley?”
“We aren’t getting Elvis?” Stephanie asked.
“You get Elvis, for sure. In the super deluxe bonus package, Elvis will sing you three love songs. Plus, you get digital images, an autographed print, and a video recording of the ceremony.” He frowned. “I don’t have your marriage license.”
“We don’t have one,” Steph replied. “And Branson’s in a pretty big hurry to get back to the hotel.”
George smiled, revealing a jagged broken front tooth. “I understand, man. Raring to get back for the honeymoon, right?” He doubled over, cackling with laughter until he started choking. Meanwhile, Stephanie searched the room for a hole to crawl into and hide until her face stopped burning. Her only solace was Branson appeared equally uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” he whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.
When did we put our hands together? Did I do that?
When George caught his breath, he coughed a few times, low and hoarse, like an old smoker. “Well then… no license? We’ll skip that part. We do it all the time.” George walked to a set of ornate doors and waved for them to follow. “Lots of people get married in Vegas without a license and have a legal ceremony later.”
“Can we skip the ceremony and just get the pictures and the video?” Steph asked, tottering behind him with Branson.
An incredulous voice behind them inquired, “You don’t want to get married?” The owner of the voice was woman, approximately the size and shape of a linebacker, sporting a low-cut blue-velvet dress and a mass of Orphan-Annie curls on her head. She stared for a long time, her round eyes, accented with thick black liner, taking in every detail of their appearance, and then burst out with a peal of laughter. “You’re teasing, aren’t you?” She stuck out a proportionately-sized hand. “I’m Priscilla. I’ll be doing the ceremony.”
For the first time, Stephanie realized how they looked—Branson in a sleek black tuxedo and her in a flowing, floor-length, designer gown that happened to be white, with tiny strands of embroidered coral flowers—exactly like a couple getting married. Would Priscilla believe Branson was wearing a tux for a charity tournament, while Steph had chosen her dress because it had a matching bolero jacket to keep her warm and a long skirt to hide the boot on her foot?
“We’re mostly here to get pictures with Elvis,” Steph explained.
The doors burst open and there stood a twenty-something Elvis in all his tight-white-panted, shiny-sequined glory. “Hello, darlin’,” he said, with a charming southern Elvis accent.
“Hi.” Steph couldn’t help the nervous giggle that escaped. She felt so silly, she was embarrassed to discover a video camera trained her direction.
Strains of music poured from overhead speakers and Elvis began to croon, “Love me, tender…” As he sang, his eyes zeroed in on Stephanie, his upper lip twitching, his body gyrating. He moved closer and closer, until he edged Branson out of the way. Her cheeks couldn’t have been any hotter if someone had lit a fire around her neck. When he finished the song on one knee, holding her hand and swearing that he loved her and he always would, George and Priscilla clapped and cheered.
He rose to his feet. “Thank you, very much,” he said, Elvis style.
“Can we get on with the ceremony?” Branson seemed irritated, probably because he wasn’t able to see the performance.
“You must be the blind groom.” Elvis turned and grabbed his hand, giving it a shake. “I’m Elvis. You’re a lucky man, marrying this beauty. Do you need help getting inside the chapel? There’s some steps at the front—might be kind of hard.”
Steph cringed. Branson hated it when
people assumed he couldn’t do anything without help, simply because he was blind.
“Shut up, Billy,” said Priscilla. “Pardon my son, Mr. Knight. He inherited my musical talent, but none of my social graces. Must’ve gotten those from his no-good, worthless daddy.”
“He’s your son?” Steph looked back and forth between the odd pair.
“I know.” Priscilla gave a conspiratorial wink. “He didn’t inherit my good looks either.”