“We couldn’t handle twenty,” Claire said, scoffing. “I would be on the floor crying with twenty.”
“You’re going to be on the floor crying, regardless. And I’m going to be right there with you,” Charlotte said.
“I don’t understand. Why does she want to have a snowy wedding on Martha’s Vineyard if she has access to— Sicily?” Gail asked.
“What kind of talk is that?” Charlotte said, teasing her. “Isn’t the Vineyard good enough for you?”
Suddenly, the door to the flower shop burst open. Snow fluttered in beautifully as Christine ducked inside, tugging her winter hat off her head. She lifted a brown bag and shook it.
“I figured you girls would want some croissants for fuel?”
“More than anything,” Rachel affirmed.
Christine grinned and tugged out the croissants, splaying them on a clean plate. “It’s really coming down out there. I hope our Ursula is pleased. She’ll have a snow-capped wedding, after all.”
As the girls snacked on croissants, Christine scanned her phone and talked about the wedding cake. “I swear, that thing is one of the prettier things I’ve ever made, but it’s nearly killed me.”
“Welcome to the club. We all deserve a spa weekend after this,” Claire said.
Suddenly, Christine stopped short, lifted her head, and gave them a bug-eyed look.
“What? What is that look for?” Charlotte demanded.
Christine turned her phone toward Charlotte to show an article from a tabloid magazine.
Is the Multi-Million Dollar Wedding Between Ursula and Orion Canceled?
“What?” Charlotte demanded. Her heart felt squeezed. “No. No, no...” She read through the article as quickly as she could.
This reporter has been awake all night, monitoring the specific details of Ursula’s well-publicized “bachelorette” weekend in Sicily. There are several hints that allude to the fact that Ursula will not go through with the wedding to Orion this weekend.
Will Ursula leave Orion at the altar?
“Wait a minute,” Charlotte demanded. She inhaled slowly and returned the phone to Christine. “No. It’s just hearsay. All these bloggers and reporters, they just want to gossip to get more readers. If I don’t hear the wedding is off straight from the horse’s mouth, then I’m going to keep going.”
“Is the horse in this metaphor Ursula herself?” Rachel asked, teasing her with a bright smile.
“Very funny young lady.” Charlotte reached for a croissant and took a small bite from the buttery crust. She then grabbed her coat and walked into the gorgeous afternoon, turning her eyes toward the sky and feeling the snow as it flickered and melted across her cheeks.
There really was something magical about Martha’s Vineyard in the winter. It felt a bit like a secret, one the rest of the world missed out on since most saw Martha’s Vineyard only in her summer glory.
Sometimes, on these snowy days, Charlotte found herself imagining Jason heading toward her from the shadows beyond. She always loved him in his winter coat, his beard thick, and his green eyes reflecting the soft light from the snow. He would always wrap her up in his big coat and dot little kisses across her cheek. “That tickles,” she always told him as the bristles of his mustache danced across her skin.
What would Jason say about this wedding?
Jason would say what he always had.
That it was frivolous—but sometimes, the frivolous things in life were the things to celebrate all the more. This was a funny stance from a fisherman. His job, as he always said, was “salt of the earth,” the kind of thing you only did if you didn’t know how to do anything else. Charlotte had always thought it was pretty romantic to have a fisherman husband. Sure—the smell had been a constant battle for her. She had tried every number of lotions and creams and candles to rid herself of the smell. Claire had always insisted that the smell didn’t rub off on Charlotte, but Charlotte had never fully believed it.
Now, she probably would have traded her right arm to have that smell around her again.
She was out of her mind.
Rachel appeared beside her in the snow a few minutes later. She imitated her mother and blinked up at the sky.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yes, honey,” Charlotte replied, easing her daughter’s anxiety. “Just plodding forward, trying not to fall apart.”
“You’ve really proven yourself over the past few weeks, I think,” Rachel said. “Cool under pressure, despite a lot of things not working out. I thought you were going to scream at Zach when he changed the menu, but you kept yourself calm—”
“Well, I mean, I did scream into that pillow later in the afternoon,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Zach’s changes are going to work perfectly,” Rachel affirmed. “He cares about this wedding just as much as all of us.”
“How did you get so wise?” Charlotte asked, looking at her daughter with nothing but love.
Rachel shrugged. “I am almost fifteen now, you know. I guess it was finally time.”
Charlotte heaved a sigh, one of hundreds per day; it seemed like. “You want to head back in? Help Claire with the bouquets?”
“She is on the verge of crying. I swear she is,” Rachel said with a laugh.
When they reentered the flower shop, they found Christine wrapping her scarf around her neck again. She tugged her head toward the door and said, “Those pies won’t make themselves, I guess, and we have way, way too many people coming over tomorrow to let them wait.”
“You’re a master,” Charlotte said. She hugged Christine tight and toyed with the little fluff ball at the top of her hat. “Don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Well, I guess, Lola and I were the ones who pushed you into this. So, without us, you might be a lot more relaxed right now,” Christine said with an evil laugh.
“Don’t remind me,” Charlotte said.
“You won’t regret it,” Christine replied.
“If you say so.”
She watched as Christine cut back into the snowy afternoon. At that moment, Claire hollered and lifted a hand, which she had accidentally clipped with the shears. Bright red blood oozed down her palm.
“No!” Charlotte cried. She rushed toward the bathroom, where she collected a number of bandages and returned to Claire, forcing her to sit.
Claire matched Charlotte’s sigh as Charlotte began to bandage her up. It had looked much worse at first; really, it was just a little slash against tender skin.
“The real drama is happening here,” Claire said with a half-chuckle. “Not over in Sicily.”
“The tabloids should really feature us,” Charlotte said as she snapped a final bandage into place.
“The Sheridan and Montgomery sisters lose their ever-loving minds over the wedding of the century,” Claire announced, waving her bandaged hand in the air.
“And they all lived happily ever after,” Charlotte said with a smile.
“In the insane asylum,” Claire finished.
Chapter Six
Everett rented a car upon his arrival in Boston and drove over to Falmouth. All the while, snow splattered itself across the windshield, and he forced the wipers to do overtime. He wasn’t used to driving in the winter. He had probably done it only a handful of times.
When he reached the ferry service that went between Falmouth and Martha’s Vineyard, the company told him that the only ferries in operation the rest of the night were ones that couldn’t support vehicles. He cursed himself for having rented the car at all. He passed his keys over to the valet and watched as the energetic twenty-something eased it down the road and toward another garage. He rubbed his arms and shivered in his light jacket.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the older man who operated the ticket stand asked him.
“I’m not, no,” he replied.
“I imagine you’re here for this fancy wedding they’ve got running over there,” the man said. “Alt
hough I don’t want to presume anything.”
Everett chuckled inwardly. “You must have me pegged.”
“I figured. You look like a California man to me,” the man said. He swiped a gloved hand across his big, blonde beard and beamed at Everett. “You have people you’re meeting for Thanksgiving?”
“No. But I’m not much of a traditions guy,” Everett said. Even as he spoke the words, he thought, What does that mean? I love traditions. Why did I just say that?
“I guess that’s fair,” the man responded. At this point, Everett could sense that he struggled to maintain that smile. “And you’ll avoid that big sugar rush, I suppose.” He tapped his stomach and continued. “I myself have a mind to eat upwards of three slices of pie.”
Everett suddenly ached to dig into one of his mother’s classic apple pies. He could see her now: folding the dough over the cinnamon apples and humming to the radio.
“Here she comes,” the man said, gesturing out across the Sound as the ferry boat approached. He stepped away, almost hurriedly, as though any additional time spent with the likes of Everett might erode his soul.
Everett hustled into the belly of the ferry and ordered a hot cup of coffee on board. The coffee tasted burnt, but it warmed up his insides as he sat on the edge of the ferry’s indoor portion and blinked out across the waves. On instinct, he checked Instagram and found a photo of two of his closest friends out in Los Angeles, sipping cocktails beneath the sun.
Well, I’m an idiot.
When the ferry reached Oak Bluffs, Everett kicked his boots across the dock and checked his phone again for a taxi service or a rental car company. Against all the odds, the wind kicked up even more, whistling past his ears. The chill felt like needles across his skin.
Just down the road, a bright red sign advertised what looked like a hole-in-the-wall bar. He shot toward it and dove through the doorway like his life depended on it. As he blinked into the warm partial darkness, a radio fizzled above, playing a Christmas song. Normally, he grumbled that Christmas songs shouldn’t be played till after Thanksgiving. In this case, so far from home—and frozen to the bone—he thought, I’ll allow it.
Actually, it sounded pretty nice.
He ordered a whiskey from the bartender and sat at a stool toward the far end of the bar, where an antique pinup poster had a Santa hat taped over it, directly over the head. A television in the corner of the room played college basketball on low volume, and several people perched around it, gripping beers and talking in low tones.
The bartender pushed a glass of whiskey in front of him and told him he could pay later. Everett thanked him and shivered again, giving himself away.
“You really have to get a better coat,” the bartender said, tapping the side of his nose. “I don’t know if you’ll make it long in this world if you don’t. I’m not much for picking up frozen westerners off the side of the road, but I’ll do it if I have to.”
Everett gave him a dry laugh. Everyone really seemed to know he was from out west. He wondered if it was something about his clothes? His skin? He had a pretty stereotypical California glow. That must have been it.
At that moment, two women ambled into the bar, yanking off their hats and gloves and marching up to the bartender. They looked similar yet different: clearly sisters, both with glorious brunette hair that went down their backs, and beautiful features. One of them was quicker with a smile than the other, at least here with the bartender. The one that smiled said, “Hey there, Mike. Happy Thanksgiving!”
“If it isn’t the Sheridan sisters,” Mike, the bartender, greeted them. “You’re looking like snow bunnies.”
“Just trying to beat the cold. You think we could get two hot toddies?” the smiling Sheridan sister asked. “Christine and I are frozen and looking to drink away our sorrows.”
“If you’ve got sorrows, you know you’ve come to the right place,” Mike said.
Everett shifted in his stool, cursing himself for not ordering a hot toddy. It was perfect weather for it.
The Sheridan sisters sat just two stools away from Everett. The smiling one flipped her hair out and thrust her coat from her long limbs. The coat was too big for her, probably something that belonged to a boyfriend or a husband or something. The fact that it dwarfed her so much made it all the more adorable, Everett thought.
“Tommy keeps making me take this stupid coat out,” the woman said. “He says all my coats are for city slickers.”
Christine chuckled. “You really made a sucker out of that guy, didn’t you? All these years, he’s been alone, looking out for himself and himself alone, and now...”
“Ha. I know. He’s such a sweetie, too. He said he loved me in his sleep last night,” the other woman said.
“Lola!”
Ah! So the one always smiling was named Lola.
“I know. It’s a little ridiculous.” Lola sipped her hot toddy and hollered, “One of your best ever, Mike!” Then, she yanked around to Christine again and said, “Do you think Charlotte is going to lose it?”
“I think she already has. We’re just in the eye of the storm,” Christine offered.
“Do you regret telling her to do it? I don’t, really. I mean, it’s all chaos and it’s been fascinating to watch. But I have to admit that I thought it would pull her out of her depression and in reality...”
“I know.” The one named Christine looked as though she pondered this for a moment.
“And the fact that Zach changed the menu like that, so soon before the wedding itself,” Lola interjected.
Christine’s face darkened. “Don’t bring Zach into this. He has been killing himself for that menu.”
“Yeah, but that decision alone was enough to make Charlotte cry for a full two hours. She had to call Ursula and explain that Zach is this world-renowned chef or whatever and that he knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, he does know what he’s doing,” Christine blared. “In case you haven’t read some of the reviews that have been written about the Bistro...”
Tensions rose between the Sheridan sisters. Everett swallowed another gulp of his whiskey. It was up to him to take their attention elsewhere. After all, they were somehow involved with this stupid wedding, as was he. It wasn’t worth fighting over.
“You said something about Ursula?” he interrupted. “Ursula Pennington?”
Lola and Christine turned their heads toward him. Christine glowered, while Lola flashed that all-out perfect smile toward him.
“Yes! The very same. Are you here for the wedding?” Lola asked.
“I am,” Everett said.
Christine arched her brow. She seemed not to trust the fact that he had interrupted their conversation like this. “What are you? A groomsman?”
“No. No way. Nothing like that. I guess most of them will fly in on private jets,” Everett said with a laugh.
“Sure,” Christine said, still a tiny bit annoyed.
“Don’t listen to her. We’ve had a hell of a time getting this wedding together. It was announced last minute, as you probably know, and our cousin Charlotte is the wedding planner,” Lola explained.
“That is quite a gig,” Everett said, impressed.
“True. We’re all helping out as much as we can. Most of our family is on the island, and she has no qualms in ordering us around,” Lola said.
“That’s good. I’m here to take photographs, mostly for Wedding Today,” Everett said.
“Oh, my God! Charlotte was just featured in that magazine,” Christine said. “Someone interviewed her about how frantic it’s been, planning a wedding for a celebrity in just a few weeks. I read the article. It was great.”
“I guess this is the kind of wedding that changes the wedding industry,” Everett agreed.
“You don’t seem particularly enamored with the idea of weddings,” Lola said with a smile.
“I wouldn’t call myself that, no. But they can be beautiful when done right.”
“We’ve never b
een married, either,” Lola said.
“Not yet,” Christine said.
“There’s always more time,” Everett said. “At least, that’s what I always tell myself. I hope I’m right.”
They continued to talk: about Everett’s career as a photographer about the places he had gone to work. He and Christine realized that they’d been at the same event a few years before in Paris when Christine had entered her cake into a pastry chef competition.
“Some of those cakes were absolutely extraordinary,” he told her. “I thought I was going to lose my mind, not being able to eat them.”
“I feel the same way when I make them,” Christine returned. She seemed a bit looser, a bit friendlier. Maybe she regretted how she’d been when they had initially met.
Lola ordered another round of drinks and insisted it was on her. She then lifted her arms skyward, popping her shoulders. “I realized we never got your name,” she said.
“Oh. I’m Everett. Everett Rainey,” he said. He dropped his hand out, and she shook it, maintaining that pretty smile.
“I’m Lola. This is Christine.” She arched her brow, then pretended to hunt around the bar for a moment. “I guess you’re here by yourself. Nobody to celebrate Thanksgiving with?”
“Afraid not,” Everett said. He tried to make sure his grin didn’t waver; he wasn’t sure he was successful.
“You should celebrate with us!” Lola suggested.
Christine gave her a look, like, I can’t believe you just said that.
But even she echoed it, next. “Yeah. Why not? We already have a million people eating with us. Why not a million and one?”
“Are you sure I’m not putting you out?” Everett asked, looking at one and then the other.
“Not at all,” Lola insisted. “Plus, you can meet the wedding planner herself. She’s a true genius, although she would never admit that.”
“I can’t resist meeting a genius,” Everett replied with a large grin.
“Plus, you can’t insult Christine and miss out on all the pies she’s been baking all day long,” Lola continued.
“I’m up to my ears in pies,” Christine nodded.
A Vineyard Thanksgiving Page 4
