How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  “Tell me the problem.” Amity interrupted in a firm tone that silenced the two women.

  “It’s Pete’s uncle. The one who is going to marry us.”

  From her vantage point, Hope could see Amity nod.

  “You know he’s not a real minister. I mean, he got ordained on one of those online sites, but he doesn’t have a church or anything.”

  “I assure you, his online ordination means he can legally marry in the state of Idaho,” Amity said calmly.

  “Pete and I were at his house last night. He said he hoped he didn’t forget to send in the marriage certificate after the ceremony because then we’d be living in sin. He laughed as if it was some big joke. I told him he’d better not forget. Now I’m worried he will.”

  “He was teasing you, Brooke.”

  Brooke continued as if her mother hadn’t spoken. “I told him if he didn’t send in those forms, Pete and I won’t be legally married.”

  “And I told you,” Mrs. Hauder interrupted, “that the marriage would still be legal.”

  Hope’s knees began to tremble. She rested a hand on the nearby chair for support.

  “Your mother is correct,” Amity said to Brooke. “Even if the forms aren’t sent in, the marriage is legal.”

  “Are you certain?” Brooke fixed her gaze on Amity.

  “One hundred percent positive. This issue has come up before. I verified it myself with the county recorder.”

  “See, I told you.” The older woman’s tone turned chiding. “Do you ever listen to me? No.”

  Cold fear stole Hope’s breath. As mother and daughter continued to bicker, a dull roaring filled her ears. She couldn’t move.

  “You can come out now,” Amity said good-naturedly. “Troll Bird and Spawn have departed.”

  Slowly, Hope rose to her feet.

  “Did you ever hear anything so silly?” Amity chuckled and refilled the bowl on the vintage scale decorating her booth with more chocolate mints. “Thinking that just because the forms didn’t get sent the marriage wouldn’t be legal.”

  A shaky laugh was all Hope could manage, while inside her thoughts raced.

  On a sunny Saturday in early October, John Burke rode into Harmony on the back of his new Harley. The sights and smells of early autumn surrounded him. While most of the lawns were still green, the leaves had already morphed into vibrant shades of red and yellow and orange. There was a pleasant earthy fragrance to the air, as if it had recently rained. John inhaled deeply.

  He’d been back many times, but those had mostly been quick trips around the holidays. This was different.

  He reached the business district and continued to drive slowly, admiring the town square. A three-story stone city hall anchored the middle of the square, while shops lined the perimeter. Old-fashioned gas lamps stood like sentinels at the edge of the brick streets, ready to cast their light on the canopied storefronts.

  In no particular hurry, John circled the square several times, taking note of businesses that were new since his last visit. The names were displayed on colorful awnings over storefront windows: The Coffee Pot, Petal Creations, and Carly’s Cut and Curl. The only business not showing any action on a lazy Saturday afternoon was the Thirsty Buffalo, a popular local bar.

  Though John had loved working and living in Portland for the past ten years, Harmony was home. When he’d left after high school, he’d vowed to return when he was a success.

  Against all odds, he’d reached that goal. But along that circuitous route with its peaks and valleys, John had discovered an undeniable truth. Success was more than a healthy bank account, more than following your passion; it was putting God and family first. Now he was coming home to put that belief into action.

  John never knew his grandparents. His father had taken off when he was ten, shortly after his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. When he was sixteen, she’d died of the disease. The only family he had was Aunt Verna, who wasn’t really his aunt.

  Verna had been his mother’s childhood friend. When his mom passed away and John was tossed into the foster care system, Verna had taken classes to become a foster parent and brought him into her home. She was his family now. As she aged, he wanted to be there for her. But Verna wasn’t the only reason he’d returned to Harmony.

  John turned his cycle onto a brick street where older homes sat far back with huge expanses of lawns draped before them like green carpets. Except for one barking beagle and a boy on a bike, the neighborhood was quiet.

  At the far end of the road, he caught sight of his destination. The two-story home, with its wraparound porch, stained-glass window panels, and abundance of gingerbread molding, stood big and white against the brilliant blue of the sky. The ornate wrought-iron fence surrounding the main yard only added to its charm.

  Seeing it now, John was filled with a sense of coming home. He pulled the Harley into the drive. Almost immediately Verna appeared on the porch, a willowy woman with hair the color of champagne. When she raised her hand in greeting and he saw her broad smile, his fingers relaxed on the bike’s handlebar grips. He was home.

  This time for good.

  Hope saw the motorcycle sitting in front of the carriage house when she pulled into the driveway. Idly, she wondered who Verna was showing through the barn. Though her aunt hadn’t had any late afternoon appointments scheduled when Hope left for the bridal fair that morning, it wasn’t unusual for prospective clients to drop by without an appointment.

  Despite Amity’s remarks looming over her like a dark cloud, Hope felt good about what she’d accomplished today. The booth had been worth every penny of the premium price they’d paid. Barn weddings were all the rage, and her booth displayed a slideshow of their gleaming red barn with its arched roof and remodeled interior. A number of brides and their mothers had set up times to visit Harmony Creek.

  After they’d torn down their booths, Amity had urged Hope to join her and some friends for dinner. But Hope was in no mood to socialize. Thankfully, Chet had called off their date for tonight. The man who would be his campaign manager had scheduled a meeting with business leaders about a possible state senate run.

  Just as well. Hope had too much on her mind, none of which she was ready to discuss with Amity or Chet.

  What if I am still married to John?

  Hope stepped from the car, closing her eyes against the sudden stab in her heart. She knew God wouldn’t give her more than she could bear.

  It will be okay, she told herself. It will all be okay.

  She entered the house, where she lived with her aunt, via the back door. Aunt Verna stood at the stove stirring a pot of soup and speaking with a man whose back was to Hope. He was tall and lanky, his wavy dark hair almost as long as hers. Hope had never seen her aunt cook in front of a potential client.

  Obviously Verna knew this man and felt comfortable around him. Still, since her aunt seemed so determined to get dinner on the table, Hope would be a good niece and offer to show him around.

  Before she could make the offer, the man turned. Her heart dropped to her toes. She didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or cry. Not more than she could bear? God apparently had more faith in her than was warranted.

  “Hello, Hope,” she heard John say. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Dinner in the Prentiss household was always served family style. Tonight was no exception. A large platter held pieces of fried chicken, John’s favorite. Bowls of whipped potatoes, green beans, and carrots sat in the middle of the farmhouse table.

  Hope’s appetite had vanished, but she was determined to get through the meal if it killed her. It would be the best way to find out exactly what had brought John back to Harmony . . . and how long he planned to stay.

  She’d been tempted to ask earlier, when she’d first seen him in the kitchen. But when he drew her to him in a quick embrace, she’d lost the ability to form a single word. Though she’d seen him at various holidays, he hadn’t touched her since the night they’d
. . . married.

  By the time he released her and she’d regained her power of speech, John was out of the house, promising to be back by dinnertime. Now here he was, sitting across from her.

  If he was uncomfortable in her presence, it didn’t show.

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier.” Hope passed him the gravy boat and spoke in what she hoped was a casual tone. “How long will you stay this time?”

  Other than Christmas or Thanksgiving, his visits had only lasted a day or two before he was back on the road again for Portland. He was an artist, specializing in sculpting. Hope had to admit the piece he’d given Verna last Mother’s Day—a figure of a woman with arms outstretched toward the sky made out of steel, data cables, and ten-inch-long nails—was impressive. Almost as impressive as the man himself.

  Hope watched John add to the whipped potatoes some of the white chicken gravy that Verna claimed was a special recipe. Actually, what made it different—and so delicious—was the addition of bacon drippings that Verna saved in a jar.

  Meeting her gaze, John smiled. Hope was ashamed to admit her traitorous heart fluttered. When she was a teenager, she’d been convinced that he was the handsomest boy on the planet. With his jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and features that could have come from a Roman warrior, John had been every young girl’s fantasy. He was even handsomer now.

  He’d let his hair grow long until the dark strands brushed his shoulders. The extra twenty pounds of muscle he’d put on for high-school sports had disappeared, leaving a leaner frame and even more pronounced cheekbones. But his lashes were still long and those perfectly sculpted lips just as tempting.

  Hope couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth, recalling how he used to trail kisses down her neck while whispering sweet words of love. She wondered suddenly what it’d feel like to kiss him again.

  The mere thought had her lips tingling.

  “What did you ask me?” His eyes remained fixed on her.

  Hope blinked, confused.

  “She asked how long you planned to stay.” Verna resumed her seat at the table after removing perfectly formed biscuits from a cast-iron skillet and dropping them into a heated bread basket.

  Hope had been convinced she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but then Verna handed the basket to her. The wonderful aroma teased her nostrils. She took a biscuit and began to butter it, conscious that John was still looking at her.

  “How long?” she repeated when he didn’t answer but continued to stare.

  “Didn’t Verna tell you?” John cast a curious glance in his foster mother’s direction. He appeared to relax at Verna’s encouraging smile. “I’m moving back to Harmony.”

  The biscuit Hope had been buttering slipped from her fingers onto the bread plate. “Why, that’s . . . wonderful.”

  She picked up the biscuit and tried to gather her thoughts. It seemed like a quirk of fate that, on the day she discovered they might still be married, John showed up in Harmony.

  Consoling herself that John’s proximity would only make getting an annulment—if it proved necessary—that much easier, Hope bit into the biscuit.

  Verna nudged Hope’s hand with the bowl of carrots and persisted until Hope added a few to her plate, then passed the bowl to John.

  His fingers brushed hers, and a sizzle of heat traveled up her arm.

  Hope inhaled sharply. Her reaction made no sense. She was reacting to him as if their connection had never been severed.

  Botheration, nothing was making any sense. Hope put a hand to her head and closed her eyes for a second.

  “Are you okay?” Concern filled John’s voice.

  She opened her eyes and forced a wan smile. “Just a little headache. It was a long day.”

  “Tell me about the bridal fair,” Verna urged. “I’ve been so busy getting dinner made that we haven’t had a chance to talk.”

  “John’s decision to move back is so much more interesting.” Hope shifted her attention to him. “What made you leave Portland? I thought you liked it there.”

  “I did.” He added carrots to his plate. “But Harmony has always felt like home. And I can work from anywhere.”

  He hadn’t really answered her question, but to press further might appear as if she was hounding him . . . or was overly interested.

  “You and Verna have a great thing going with Harmony Creek,” he said, bouncing the conversational ball back to her. “I’d think that’d be enough to keep you busy, but she tells me you’re doing payroll for the Tuttle banks as well as some tax work in the spring.”

  It appeared Verna had done quite a stellar job updating John on her life. Too bad her aunt hadn’t done quite so well keeping Hope informed of his activities.

  “I like to stay busy.” She stabbed a carrot with her fork. “And I’m in the critical years of building my portfolio. I put most of the money from my accounting work into the market. So far, so good.”

  “I’d have expected you to be more conservative in your investments. Perhaps a CD or maybe a money-market account.”

  Hope narrowed her eyes. Was he making fun of her? His stoic expression made it difficult to tell. “The return on a CD or money market wouldn’t even keep up with inflation.”

  “But no risk,” he said, a tiny smile hovering on the corners of his lips. “From what I remember, you’re averse to risk taking, for any reason.”

  The heat rose up Hope’s neck like a fire in dry kindling, reaching her cheeks in seconds. She wasn’t fooled by his innocent expression. No, sirree.

  She slammed the glass she’d brought to her mouth back on the table with such force the milk sloshed in the air. Placing her hands on the edge of the table, Hope leaned forward. When she spoke, her voice was razor-sharp. “What I’m not willing to take are foolish risks.”

  “I believe this time together around the table is the perfect opportunity to let you in on my latest brilliant plan,” Verna interrupted, her tone cheerful but determined. “I’m going to call it Mistletoe Inn.”

  Hope sat back, suddenly confused. “Call what Mistletoe Inn?”

  “The house, of course.”

  “What house?” John asked.

  “The one you’re sitting in, silly.” Verna’s lips lifted in a pleased smile, as if knowing she now had their full attention. “I’ve decided to open my home for weddings—initially, during the month of December only. We’ll offer small wedding packages. Couples can marry in the parlor and use the entire main level for the reception. We’ll make a few rooms on the upper level available for the wedding couple and their guests.”

  “When did you decide this?” Hope couldn’t hide her confusion.

  “I’ve been considering it for some time.” Verna added a dollop of honey to her biscuit.

  “I thought”—John spoke slowly, as if maneuvering his way through a minefield—“that you enjoyed your privacy and liked having friends and family over for holiday decorating and activities. How are you going to do that if you have people in your home for weddings?”

  “I agree.” Hope exchanged a look with John. She had mixed emotions about their shared solidarity in opposing this venture.

  “It would only be for a select few.” Verna carelessly waved a hand. “It wouldn’t be one of those ‘come one, come all’ kind of things.”

  “Do you have a couple in mind?” Hope asked. “Is that what prompted your decision?”

  “No.” Verna took a bite of chicken, then delicately wiped the edges of her mouth with a linen napkin. “But I’d like to start this year.”

  What was her aunt thinking? December was two months away. If they wanted to do this right, that didn’t give them much time.

  Now wasn’t the time to go into the particulars, but Hope intended to speak with her aunt about this scheme soon.

  She lifted a piece of chicken that had somehow found its way onto her plate and took a bite. As the delicious blend of spices melded with the succulent meat, she realized she hadn’t asked John where he pl
anned to live.

  “Have you given any thought to where you’ll live?” Hope asked. “I’m sure you’ll want your privacy.”

  She recalled that much about him. That meant there was zero chance of him wanting to live under Verna’s roof for more than the few days it would take him to get settled.

  “I wanted John to stay in the house with us,” Verna said. “It would be wonderful having him here again. Despite my begging, he said no.”

  A smile began to form on Hope’s lips.

  “So I offered him the carriage house.”

  They’d renovated the apartment over the carriage house last year when Verna had thought about renting it out. But then she’d reconsidered, not sure if she wanted someone she didn’t know living so close.

  “It’s perfect.” Verna’s voice reverberated with excitement. “All that space was going to waste. And John will be able to use the carriage house for his art.”

  “The space isn’t that large.” Hope knew she was grasping at straws, but a sick panic had begun to rise from her belly.

  “True,” John admitted. “But it’ll be big enough.”

  Hope’s eyes met his and she couldn’t look away. It was as if his eyes were the ocean and she was once again being drawn from the shore to that spot where she would be in over her head. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m taking Verna up on her offer. I’ll be moving into the carriage house. Like I said before . . .” Those brilliant blue eyes held a hint of challenge. “I’m here to stay.”

  Hope was grateful John didn’t accompany her and Aunt Verna to Sunday services. The moving van hauling his work equipment and a few personal items had arrived shortly after the family dinner last night, and he’d been “busy” getting settled.

  Though John had always prayed with them before meals and usually attended church services with them around the holidays, Hope wasn’t certain where he was on his faith journey. Frankly, she didn’t care.

  Perhaps that wasn’t very Christian of her, but right now the only thing she had to be thankful for was that he wasn’t going to be staying in a bedroom down the hall. On the same property was bad enough.