“You know, it’s all your fault that I look like a respectable person, now.”
I walk over to my friend and open my arms to him. “Billy Grimps, it has been a pleasure getting to know you.” He holds on tightly while I add, “You are never getting rid of me now.”
“I guess being that you already feel like family, we’re stuck with each other,” he tells me.
“If you ever want to visit New York again,” I tell him, “you have a place to stay with me.”
“I don’t imagine I’ll be doing that,” he says. “But I’ll look forward to your next trip to Oregon.”
Brogan isn’t the only wonderful surprise I found in Oregon. Billy is the least likely person I’d ever think I’d become friends with, yet here we are. Tears fill my eyes at the thought of not seeing him every day. “I’d call you, but you don’t have a phone,” I tell him.
“Not much point with no reception. You could write to me once in a while and let me know how you and Brogan are getting on,” he says with a hitch in his voice.
“Will you write me back?” I ask him.
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
With my arm still around him, I say, “You’ve got yourself a deal then. But we’ll be back in a couple months. Would you mind making sure the fishing cabin is ready for us?”
“I’ve already talked to Herman. He’s lining up bathtubs for all of the cabins. I’ll make sure you get the nicest. Ruby’s going to install wood-burning stoves for year-round comfort and she’s got a line on solar water heaters so you don’t have to wait for the water to heat up for your bath.”
Billy and I sit out on the porch and enjoy a cup of tea together. “Life doesn’t always turn out like you expect it to, does it?” I ask him.
“Girl, that’s the biggest understatement I’ve ever heard. Just remember that no matter what turns it takes, your happiness is always in your hands. When you start to feel like things are overwhelming you, the only solution is to simplify your life.”
“Like moving out to the woods and living off the land?” I ask him with a smile on my face.
“Just like that,” he tells me.
Brogan pulls up in the golf cart and gives the horn a toot. “Uncle Billy,” he calls out.
“Boy, you don’t need to keep calling me uncle.”
“What if I want to?” Brogan asks him.
“Then I guess I don’t mind hearing it,” Billy says.
Brogan loads our stuff into the golf cart while I say my final goodbye to my new friend. “I happen to think you’re a wonderful man, Uncle Billy, and I thank you for taking me under your wing and keeping me safe up here.”
He kisses my cheek and replies, “I don’t care what happens with you and Brogan, I’m always going to think of you as my family.”
Tears threaten to spill … who knew that four short weeks ago this homeless man would touch my heart so?
When it comes time to leave, we wave goodbye to each other, and I finally let the tears fall. Brogan toots the horn one last time, and I watch my first glamping experience, along with my new friend, fade into the distance. One thought pops into my head so strongly that it takes my breath away. I don’t feel like I’m heading home going back to New York. I feel like I’m leaving home by leaving Oregon.
Chapter Sixty
The Mothers
Standing on the curb at the airport, Ruby says goodbye to her son and Addie. “Be good to each other,” she says. “And remember, no pranks.”
Brogan hugs his mom. “Thank you for being a meddling, interfering mother.”
“I’ve always got your back, honey.”
Addie hugs her next. “I love you, Aunt Ruby. I’ll see you in December.”
The mothers let their kids pass off the luggage to the baggage handler while they say their goodbyes. Ruby holds on to her friend like she doesn’t want to let go. “So, Christmas at the lodge this year, right?”
“Bob can’t wait,” Libby says. “He’s requested we stay in one of the cabins if they’re ready.”
“Billy is working full steam, following Addie’s checklist. They should be done by Thanksgiving. If left on his own, I’m afraid my brother-in-law would have a much more simplistic view on what’s needed for a glamping experience. Fortunately, Addie wants to see the project through.”
Libby shakes her head. “Your brother-in-law. I still can’t wrap my head around it. What a gift that is for you all.”
“It really is,” Ruby says. “I wish we’d known this years ago.”
“You’ve got to take the blessings when they come, I guess.”
“You better text me the whole way home and let me know how everything is going,” Ruby says.
“I promise. And just so you know, Bob and I are going to be checking on the happy couple regularly.”
“I’m glad Brogan’s publisher has an apartment he’s letting my son use, but is it wrong of me to say I hope he’s not there very often?”
Libby laughs. “Not wrong at all, but it’ll be good for our kids to have a little space from each other, too. You know that old saying, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’? It’ll be good for them to miss each other once in a while.”
Ruby finally lets her friend go. “I love you, Libs. I wish I didn’t have to wait until December to see you all again.”
“You don’t,” Libby tells her. “You can come out my way any time you want.”
Ruby tips her head back and forth before saying, “I know the lodge would be fine without me, but who’s going to throw James and Tara together if I’m not there?”
“How in the world are you going to manage that with James being out on his farm most of the time?”
Ruby’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got my ways.”
Libby gives her friend one last squeeze before joining Addie and Brogan. She turns around and shouts, “Meddling Mothers one, Stubborn Kids zero!”
Ruby waves wildly and calls back, “Pretty soon that’s going to be, Meddling Mothers two …”
“Go get ’em, girl. I can’t wait to hear how it goes!”
Preorder Ain’t She Sweet (book two in the Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Series):
Tara Heinz began her modeling career at the tender age of twelve. After spending fifteen years drooling over forbidden foods, she does the unthinkable. She enrolls in culinary school and becomes a pastry chef.
After a nasty breakup with her rock star boyfriend leads to tabloid war, Tara takes a job at a rural lodge in Oregon to escape the spotlight she no longer desires.
James Cavanaugh is a farmer in Oregon. His days are spent building his business and his nights are spend sleeping, so he can get up at four in the morning.
Ruby Cavanaugh has plans for her son that involve her new pastry chef. Of course, neither James nor Tara know what’s going on until it’s too late.
While you’re waiting for Ain’t She Sweet, check out Whitney’s multi-award-winning Relatively Series!
Relatively Normal
Four Years Ago
My best friend is a vision straight out of one of those glossy bridal magazines that costs more than a macchiato and breakfast sandwich at Starbucks. She’s well over six feet tall in her heels, slim as a fashion model—except she’s sporting a C-cup no emaciated supermodel would be caught dead with—and her silky brown hair is currently twisted in an impossibly complicated up-do that probably required four professional hair stylists and a drag queen to execute. She’s elegant beyond words.
I gasp as she spins around, so I can behold her in all her splendor. The sleeveless, beaded-bodice trumpet gown fits her like a glove. “Jasmine Marie, you’re glorious!”
She giggles, which is a sound you wouldn’t expect to come out of such a stunningly ethereal creature. She spins again, “I’ve never felt so girly! And that’s saying something being that I’m this tall.”
“Whoever said a month’s paycheck was too much to spend on a wedding dress clearly never saw you in this
one. I feel like a proud mother right now.”
Jazz heaves a sigh. “Speaking of mothers, you have to do me a favor.” My eyebrows raise in interest. She continues, “Watch out for mine and make sure she doesn’t murder my dad’s new wife during dinner.”
I snort. “Puh-leeze, your mom is every ounce a lady. She’d no more commit murder than I would.”
“Alas, Brandee—with two e’s—the latest of my dad’s spouses, has just announced she’s pregnant. My mom isn’t taking the news gracefully.”
“You’re kidding me? You’re going to have a new brother or sister at twenty-nine?” Then I ask, “How old is Brandee again?”
My friend rolls her big brown eyes. “My dearest stepmother has just turned twenty-four.”
“I don’t know, Jazz. I think your dad is the one who needs offing in this scenario. I might be persuaded to help.”
“I would appreciate if no murders were committed at my nuptials.” Then she hugs me, and says, “But I love you for offering.”
“Oh, Jazzy,” I exclaim, “this day is going to be so wonderful. You deserve every minute of happiness. Dylan is one lucky guy.”
Brushing a non-existent wrinkle out of her skirt, she declares, “Now all we need to do is find you the perfect man. Three of the groomsmen are single. You’ve met two of them, and the third is the one with sandy blond hair. He’s Dylan’s cousin, Jared, from Detroit.”
“Detroit? Hard pass.” The sarcasm rolls off my tongue. “I’m not looking for a long-distance love. But have no fear, I’ll definitely scope out the other two. I’m not opposed to meeting the future Mr. Catriona Masterton tonight.”
She beams. “People often meet their future spouses at weddings. It’s a thing.”
“So, it’s got to be my turn, right?”
Jazz playfully punches my arm. “That’s the attitude I love! I just wish you were walking down the aisle with me.”
I call out to Jennifer, our assistant, “Make sure you pack up all of Jazz’s stuff and take it over to her suite at the hotel. Oh, and before you go, tell Elaine to get the limos turned around out front to transport the wedding party to the reception once the ceremony ends.”
In addition to being best friends, Jazz and I own a much sought-after event-planning business in Manhattan. We’re the go-to duo known for stylishly executing even the trickiest parties—like weddings where the groom was once married to the bride’s sister—without a hitch.
I turn to the current bride. “I wish I were walking down the aisle with you too, but someone has to make sure this shin-dig of yours goes off perfectly. There’s a ton of potential business out there, so we have to make sure this is our best party yet. Now, hustle, the bridesmaids are already upstairs, and their procession starts in . . .”—I check my watch— “two minutes, which only gives you seven before it’s your turn.”
I pick up my friend’s chapel-length train to keep it from getting dirty on the stairs. “Let’s go, lady; your happily-ever-after awaits.”
We arrive upstairs in the entrance of St. John the Divine Cathedral just as Emily, the last bridesmaid, starts her goosestep down the aisle. Jazz and I stand side-by-side watching her go. As Emily takes her place in the front of the altar, the first strains of “Trumpet Voluntary” fill the atmosphere like a heavenly serenade. Chills race through my body as I kiss my friend’s cheek and hand her off to her father who will deliver her to her destiny, one Dylan Finch.
Once the ceremony is over and the reception is in full swing at the St. Regis Hotel, I take off my party-planner hat and put on my dancing shoes. It’s go time. I have my eye on a particular groomsman, whom I’ve met on a couple other occasions. He’s sweet and shy, but super easy on the eyes. I’m not sure we’re destined for matrimony, but a couple of dances would be fun.
I straighten the skinny navy skirt of my evening dress and prepare for the chase. I take a step forward and wind up doing an unexpected split to the ground. Ouch! The waiter rushes over to clean up the spilled drink I inadvertently stepped in, and before I can begin the process of restoring my dignity, a pair of shiny, black shoes shows up next to me.
A manly hand stretches out and a deep voice inquires, “May I be of assistance?” He introduces himself. “Ethan Crenshaw, lifelong friend of the groom.” I recognize him from the rehearsal dinner, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Not only is Dylan’s friend chivalrous, but he has gorgeous green eyes that remind me of Maeve’s, my childhood cat.
I take his hand. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“Let me help you to a chair and then I’ll get some ice for your injury. It’ll keep the swelling down,” he announces.
Once I’m positioned at table fourteen in the main ballroom, I watch Ethan walk to the bar. He looks good in a way that suggests he’s comfortable in formal wear, like James Bond. And bam, just like that, I realize I had totally forgotten about the cute groomsman.
When my knight in shining armor—a.k.a. a black tuxedo—returns, he helps prop my foot up on a chair and states, “There’s a nine percent chance of getting injured at a wedding reception.”
As far as opening lines go, it’s not the best. Yet, his previous gallantry more than makes up for it. “That seems to be an awfully high number,” I reply. “I’ve been to almost two hundred weddings so far and this is my first injury. If my calculations are correct, that puts my risk at point five percent, nowhere near your estimate.”
“Two hundred weddings? You must be quite a popular friend.”
I inform him, “I’m a party planner. I’m Jazz’s partner.”
“Ah, well then, surely you’ve had a blister, a burnt finger, or a stiff neck?”
I laugh. “If you’re going to include all the mundane discomforts, I’d think you’d be more accurate to say there’s a hundred percent chance of getting injured at a wedding.”
He shakes his head. “No, only nine percent, unless my research is wrong.” With a pointed look he adds, “Which it never is.”
What kind of person researches injuries at weddings? So, I ask, “What exactly do you do for a living?”
“I’m an actuary. Certainly, not as glamorous a profession as party planning, but it pays the bills.”
I’ve heard the job title, but I have no idea what it entails. Kind of like an ornithologist. I know it’s something. I just don’t know what. At my confused look, he explains, “Insurance companies and brokerage firms hire actuaries to assess the financial risk of investments and people. I currently work at an insurance company and help set rates, based on the statistical probability of natural disasters hitting certain demographics. For instance, earthquake insurance in the Midwest costs you next to nothing compared to what it does in California, for a reason.”
“Huh.” I can’t seem to think of any other response.
“It sounds like a job that could bore the paint off the walls, doesn’t it?” he laughs.
I flirt, “Lucky for me, I like numbers.”
Ethan sits with me for the next three hours while I ice my ankle, ten minutes on and twenty minutes off, as per his suggestion for the best healing effects. As we get to know each other, I watch Jazz flirt and dance with the man who just promised to love her forever.
Dylan is hands down the sweetest, funniest, and most devoted man I’ve ever met. He adores my friend with his whole being and treats her like delicate china, even though she’s not the kind of woman you’d want to sneak up on in a dark alley. Jazzy is one hundred percent Amazon with a touch of Xena Warrior Princess. She and Dylan are perfect for each other.
I was once in love with a man very much like Dylan and it didn’t turn out well, which is why I’m currently in the market for someone more practical. I’m less concerned with grand gestures and flowery compliments, than in a reliable partner who will be there when the chips are down.
Throughout the reception, not only do I discover that Ethan adheres to a strictly regimented life, but I also learn he’s a lovely man. He even offers, “Would you like me t
o see you safely home? No ulterior motives, I promise.”
“It’s kind of early to leave, don’t you think?” And while he claims no other motivation, I wouldn’t be opposed to a little romance.
He looks at his watch and explains, “I promised my neighbor, Mrs. Fein, I’d look in on her cat while she’s away. Apparently, Fifi suffers from separation anxiety and needs someone to bat her toy mouse around with her before she can go to sleep.”
As the party is winding down, and I can see the staff has everything well in hand, there’s nothing more for me to do. I allow Ethan to escort me home. True to his word, he doesn’t try any funny business. He just gives me a sweet kiss, leaving me wanting more, and asks, “When can I see you again?”
The Courtship
When my doorbell rings, I quickly apply a fresh layer of lipstick and grab my purse. Tonight, we’re celebrating our first anniversary, which happens to coincide with Jazz and Dylan’s first anniversary. I’m wearing a cerulean-blue wrap-dress that compliments my blonde hair and blue eyes. I bought it especially for this occasion.
Ethan greets me with a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses. “For my beautiful lady.”
I pull him in and give him a proper kiss of appreciation. “These are perfect, thank you.” Even though red roses are meant for lovers, Ethan’s favorite are white ones. He claims they’re pure and untarnished, like me. Swoon, right?
Our dating experience has been perfect. There’s no rush to jump into bed and burn ourselves out having wild monkey sex six times a day. That’s not to say there’s isn’t any chemistry. There definitely is. It’s just not some uncontrollable chemical explosion guaranteed to fizzle once the initial throes of passion are spent. It would be more accurate to conclude we’re committed to an adult relationship that involves a lot of other aspects of our union, in addition to the physical. It’s exactly what I’m looking for. I’ve reached an age where I’m no longer interested in unpredictable and spontaneous men.
Love is a Battlefield (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 1) Page 26
