The guests all agreed. It was a beautiful setting for a wedding.

Set in Laguna Beach in a grass park next to the beach, a white carpet runner served as the center aisle between the rows of wooden chairs. Each aisle seat was artfully decorated with thick cream ribbons, tendrils of miniature ivy, and blush roses.

The five bridesmaids, all in their late 20s, glistened like polished gems after their morning make-overs. The five groomsmen tried to hide their freshly-manicured hands behind their backs, embarrassed to be seen as less than manly. Even Scotch, the dog belonging to the bride and groom, got spiffed up, his worn leather collar replaced with a thick ring of flowers and ribbons.

When the groom caught sight of the bride in her sleeveless V-neck lace and tulle gown, he placed his hand on his heart. The couple’s eight parents, four biological and four step, were heard sniffling in the front row when an uncle, newly ordained by the Universal Life Church, pronounced the couple as married.

The wedding planner bustled to the front. She handed the bride and groom a round white box and each member of the wedding party an apple-green origami envelope.

She explained to the rapt audience that the box contained thirty Monarch butterflies while each envelope held two. The butterflies had been refrigerated to put them into a sleep state, a temporary non-harmful insect coma. But once exposed to the Southern California sunlight, the butterflies would awake to fly and flit in the air, a beating and beautiful symbol of the union sealed that day.

“It’s time!” The wedding planner called out in her sing-song voice.

The bride and groom opened their white box of butterflies. The wedding party unfolded their envelopes. Everyone was smiling with anticipation.

Nothing happened.

The bride and groom shook their box. The wedding party flicked their envelopes. A murmur rose from the crowd.

They shook harder. Soon, butterfly bodies were flopping onto the grass and the white runner. Dark little bodies littered the ground. Sleeping insects dreaming buggy dreams.

The wedding planner gasped. Never one for the smaller details, she had missed one essential fact. Laguna Beach was currently overcast; there was no sun to rouse the butterflies.

Scotch, untethered in the excitement, ran down the aisle scooping up butterflies into his open mouth like a whale sucking up krill.

“Scotch, NO!” the bride screamed, lunging for the dog. But her 4-inch heels caught in the grass and she went flying, limbs akimbo. The groom, attempting to catch the bride, instead caught her fist, smack in the middle of his forehead. He crumpled down for the count.

The five children of the wedding party, all between the ages of three to five, whooped like escaped demented prisoners, running in circles around the agitated adults and their frantic admonitions:

“Sammy, stop! Mia, what are you doing?”

“Be careful!”

“Don’t step on the butterflies!”

In the end, it was the wedding photographer who caught the perfect shot. The sun finally broke through the clouds in dazzling beams. The groom lay on his back on the emerald grass, eyes closed. He could have been sleeping. His new wife, lying by his side, stroked his face, her tears invisible to the camera’s eye. Three butterflies, awakened like Sleeping Beauties, made their way into the bride’s hair, now undone from its updo and cascading in wild waves of auburn and gold.

Much later, when the framed picture was picked up and admired by visitors to their home, the couple had their practiced response ready.

“It was certainly a day to remember.”