BRIEF ENCOUNTERS : A March Down the Isle : When a Small Wedding Threatens to Become a Vast Pageant, It’s Time to Take a Hike

THERE’S NO SUCH thing as a small wedding,” I warn Monica when she tells me she’s getting married in May. Weddings follow a law of geometric progression: If you invite A, then you have to invite B and C; if you have just A, B and C, you’ll offend D, E, F, G, H and I.

“But all we want is an intimate ceremony with our family and friends,” Monica argues.

That was what my fiance and I had wanted, too. “We can get married in our front yard,” said Duke. “Or better still, on the beach.” It sounded like a good plan. How difficult could it be?

Let me tell you.

“When’s the wedding?” asked my sister, Lisa, the minute I called New York to tell her that Duke and I would no longer be living together on spec.

“I don’t know yet,” I stammered as my pulse began racing for the escape hatch. (Remarriage is an excellent test of just how amicable your divorce was.)

“You must set a date,” Lisa ordered. “I want to get a cheap fare.”

Duke and I decided January would be a good time for a wedding, mostly because it was the first available month that didn’t include holidays, birthdays or former wedding anniversaries. “You must get married by the end of the year to file a joint tax return,” my father decreed.

We decided Thanksgiving would be a better time for a wedding, mostly because we could cook a traditional turkey dinner ourselves and save the expense of a catered reception. But a head count of our parents, stepparents, siblings, their spouses and their children revealed we were looking at a minimum guest list of 50 people--if we excluded all our friends.

“You must invite Duke’s aunt and uncle,” insisted my future mother-in-law, who had already invited them for me. “They live in Philadelphia. They won’t come.”

But you can’t rely on anyone not to come to a wedding, especially a wedding in Southern California. Within weeks, everyone we had ever met--long-forgotten friends, ex-lovers, even college roommates--found out about our wedding, “wouldn’t miss it for the world” and had, in fact, purchased non-refundable plane tickets. I began to panic when I got a postcard from a friend in Tasmania.

“You must hire people to help you,” exclaimed my future sister-in-law.

We decided to call a caterer. I discovered that we would have to pay $1,500 for a turkey dinner and triple overtime for people to serve it because it was Thanksgiving. Duke sent me to check out a beachfront restaurant.

“You can sort of see the ocean from the dining room,” I reported glumly. (My doubts were growing faster than the Homeless City of tents that blocked the view.) “And it’s $20 a person.”

“I guess that’s OK,” Duke muttered morosely.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” I fretted as he ran out of the house to enjoy a few peaceful hours wandering the aisles of Pep Boys.

“I don’t care,” he snapped.

I didn’t think it could get worse, but then it did get worse.

“You must ask Rachel to be your flower girl,” my future father-in-law informed me in front of his 4-year-old granddaughter. (My brother’s wife had already taken the liberty of buying her 6-year-old daughter a dress.) Grandma called from Florida to threaten that my ailing grandfather would die if a rabbi didn’t perform the ceremony. “My wedding is turning into a pageant,” I complained to my friend Lori. “And it’s not as if the British government is picking up the tab and I get to ride in a glass coach.”

“Albert and I started out with six people and wound up with 127,” she consoled me. “One of my cousins was seriously into alcohol. She drank all the white liquor and went to work on the brown. She ripped off the bottom of my wedding gown as I walked into the reception.” I began to reminisce about the good old days when I was dating.

Duke was on the phone making inquiries about the price of a one-way ticket to Mexico City when I got home. “I’m canceling our wedding,” I announced before he could read off his Visa number.

I haven’t seen Duke so relieved since Magic Johnson flattened the Celtics in the championships with a miracle junior sky hook. “That’s great, honey,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

Curiously enough, everyone was more understanding about the wedding being canceled than they were about the wedding being held.

“Whatever makes you happy,” said our friends and relatives, who effortlessly located doctors to attest to urgent inner-ear infections forbidding air travel, allowing refunds on their non-refundable tickets.

So, Duke, an enormous bridal bouquet and I took a boat to Santa Catalina Island. We checked into the Call of the Canyon Room at the Zane Grey Pueblo. Fern Whelan, the Justice of the Peace of the City of Avalon, agreed to marry us at 5 o’clock.

At noon, Duke suggested we take a little hike up the airport road. The only hike I felt like taking was to the hairdresser, but I didn’t want him to think he was marrying a poor sport. At 3 o’clock, I was sunburned, weary from walking uphill and too desperate to find a bathroom to marvel at the wild buffalo cow and calf that kept me from going behind a tree.

“Let’s turn around,” I said. “Just a little farther,” Duke coaxed.

At 4 o’clock, we were past Black Jack Mountain, some 7 miles away. Duke suggested a shortcut back through the restricted area where hunters were shooting wild pigs.

I jumped in front of a speeding truck. “Stop!” I shrieked. “I’m late for my wedding.”

All’s well that ends well. We were married against a beautiful sunset on our terrace overlooking the harbor. The hotel graciously supplied champagne and a witness.

There is such a thing as a small wedding.