of Peg Cochran's Murder, She Reported series
I’m going to be in Bunny Paxton’s wedding this weekend. We know each other from college although we weren’t best friends. The ceremony will be at St. James’ Episcopal Church on the upper Eastside of Manhattan and then we’ll head to her family’s townhouse for the wedding luncheon.
Her gown is lovely—simple and sleek but with a train that is positively miles long. She’s wearing a crown of orange blossoms instead of a veil.
My gown is pale green with a square neckline and puffed sleeves. I had to have it taken in—I’ve lost weight since I began working at the Daily Trumpet. Running all around town to photograph stories doesn’t always leave me time for lunch. And if the scene includes a particularly gruesome murder, it’s not unheard of for me to lose my appetite altogether.
The wedding luncheon will be traditional, of course, with the obligatory champagne toast and a speech by the best man. We all have our fingers crossed that Dickie doesn’t say anything too outrageous but after a few of his favorite Ramos gin fizzes, who knows?
Then we’ll pelt the happy couple with rice and off they’ll go on their wedding trip to Bermuda.
And once again my mother will be hounding me about when I’m going to get married. Being a single working girl in New York City in 1938 isn’t easy.
What kind of a wedding did you have?
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