How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  Hope wished she shared her aunt’s faith.

  “What kind of invitations do Luke and Laura want?” Hope glanced at the choices on the website. “Vintage? Modern? Artistic? Classic? Whimsical?”

  “Once again, they’ve given me carte blanche.”

  “I can’t believe neither of them have a preference.” Hope frowned. “They don’t seem at all interested in their own wedding.”

  “They’re in a war zone. They may be more focused on staying alive,” John offered.

  “Good point.” Reluctantly, Hope acknowledged she may have been too quick to judge.

  “You’re in your late twenties.” Verna settled her gaze on her niece. “What would you prefer?”

  “I’m not into classic.” Hope studied the screen, paused, considered. “Whimsical is too cutesy. I’d say somewhere in between.”

  Verna glanced at John, which led Hope to conclude Luke must be in the same age range.

  “I agree with Hope.” John shot her a wink. “We’re on the same page again.”

  “You guys are making this easy.” There was satisfaction in the words. Verna tapped the screen. “What about something like this?”

  Hope glanced at the simple design. Clusters of pinecones edged the invitation. Their deep brown was a perfect foil for the white center where the wording was displayed. Shaped like a snowflake, the center boasted strategically placed swirls of burgundy. A single sprig of mistletoe near the date and time added a festive touch. She cocked her head, nodded. “I like it.”

  “We have a winner,” John announced.

  “But the wording needs some tweaking,” Hope said quickly when Verna selected the image.

  “What’s wrong with the words?” Verna asked.

  “If this were for me, I’d want something more personal,” Hope told her aunt.

  “Like what?”

  As Hope chewed on her lip and thought, John took the ball and ran with it.

  “For instance, if Luke is having something personal inscribed on Laura’s band, you could get rid of this wording”—John pointed at the screen—“and substitute the inscription at the top.”

  “You’re right,” Hope said, loving the suggestion. “That would be a great touch.”

  “Why don’t you give me an example?” Verna asked John.

  “In Hope’s ring, I had inscribed the words ‘From every valley to every summit, faithfully yours forever.’ ”

  Hope didn’t know what to think when Verna began to key in the inscription. “John isn’t saying to have them use that—he’s just giving an example.”

  “I understand that.” Verna continued to hunt-and-peck the letters. “If Luke hasn’t had anything inscribed in her band, I want him to see how many words would fit.”

  “Oh,” Hope said. “That makes sense.”

  “Where is it?” Aunt Verna asked.

  Hope inclined her head.

  “Your wedding ring.” Verna looked pointedly at her hand. “John is now wearing his wedding band, but your finger is still bare.”

  For a second, Hope almost thrust her hand into her pocket, but that wouldn’t solve anything. Verna had already seen the bare ring finger. She lifted her chin. “I’m not quite ready to put it on.”

  “I thought you’d decided to embrace your marriage.” Verna spoke as if John wasn’t even in the room.

  “I have.” Hope shifted from one foot to the other, not sure how much to divulge. Some things needed to stay between her and John. Unfortunately, her decision not to wear the ring until she was sure they were going to stay together made it look as if she wasn’t invested in their marriage. Especially since John had chosen to wear his.

  She chewed on her lip and tried to think of an appropriate response.

  “Hope’s ring is a special symbol between us. When I put it on her finger the next time, we will both know that’s where it’s going to stay.” John stood up and laid an arm casually around Hope’s shoulders. There was no mistaking the gesture. He was telling Verna he stood with his wife.

  Hope experienced a rush of pleasure at his support and understanding. How had she forgotten how kind he could be? He’d been like this even as a boy. She leaned into him, taking in his warmth.

  “There’s another comment I have about the invitations.” John pulled her even closer and absently kissed her hair. “Or rather, a question.”

  Verna lifted a brow.

  Hope wasn’t sure if the gesture was in response to his comment or his increasingly easy show of affection.

  “Why aren’t the names of the parents listed on the invitation?” he asked.

  “I chose one that didn’t include the names,” Verna said casually. “I find the practice a bit old-fashioned.”

  Hope exchanged a surprised glance with John.

  “I like the practice,” Hope said hesitantly. “I don’t find it old-fashioned at all.”

  “I don’t either,” John echoed.

  “If we were the ones getting married, I’d want your name on the invitation. You’re our family and we’d want you to be part of this special day.”

  John’s gaze focused on the screen, his expression sober. “We didn’t think of anyone but ourselves when we ran off to get married.”

  “You were too busy thinking how much you loved each other,” Verna said softly, her tone one of understanding rather than condemnation. “Love should be at the base of any marriage. Other things are nice, but in the end, they aren’t what matters.”

  Impulsively, Hope reached over and hugged her aunt, tears springing to her eyes. “I love you. I couldn’t have asked for a better mother after my own died.”

  John’s arms encircled them both. “I agree, you’re the best.”

  Verna blinked back tears and swatted them away. “I love you both too. Now get out of here and let me work.”

  Hope straightened and grinned. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want Luke and Laura’s guests not to show up at their wedding because the invitations didn’t get sent out in enough time.”

  “Once again, I appreciate your comments and insights.” Though Verna’s eyes still held a sheen of tears, she smiled.

  “Are you certain you don’t want to come to the festival with us?” John held his hand out to his foster mother. “We’re taking Hope’s car, so there’s plenty of room.”

  “I’m looking forward to enjoying a cup of hot tea and getting these invitations ordered.” Her aunt’s gaze shifted between Hope and John. “Besides, there’s a full moon tonight. A night for romance and love.”

  Aunt Verna blew them a kiss.

  When John linked fingers with hers, Hope knew the only thing he needed to do for the night to be absolutely perfect was to keep holding her hand.

  “What do you mean you don’t like Mexican hot chocolate?” Amity looked at Dan as if he’d suddenly grown horns.

  “Chili pepper belongs in chili,” he insisted. “Not in cocoa.”

  The two had been sparring since they’d met up in front of the church. It was really quite cute. Hope hid a smile and pretended to refocus on the parade.

  The parade down Market Street was typical for a small town. There were eight or ten decorated tractors that would later be competing in the “best-dressed” tractor competition, several antique cars, a couple of clowns tossing candy to the kids.

  “There’s the queen,” Hope announced, gesturing to a Chevy 4×4 pulling a flatbed trailer. The Harvest queen sat on bales of hay, surrounded by her court.

  The queen was always a senior at the local high school, so the pretty blonde couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. Staring at her, Hope couldn’t believe she’d been married at that age.

  Amity cast the girl an appraising glance. “She’s cute.”

  “Not as cute as you.”

  Dan’s comment appeared to render Amity momentarily speechless.

  Amity had obviously decided to go cowgirl for the evening. She wore a western-cut shirt with pearl snaps, tight Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots with
a swath of teal across the sides. Her dark, messy hair had been pulled back in a flouncy tail, which oddly suited her just as well as the boho-chic attire she normally preferred.

  “That should have been you in high school,” John murmured.

  Hope looked at him in surprise. “Who?”

  “The Harvest queen. Back in high school you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Hope saw Dan and Amity exchange a quick, significant glance.

  Heat rose up Hope’s neck. “Yeah, right.”

  “You still are,” John said earnestly.

  “Well, thank you.”

  “The dance won’t start until seven,” Dan remarked as the last antique car drove past. “Anyone interested in walking through the Arts and Crafts tent?”

  Amity’s hand shot up in the air. “If there’s food, count me in. Especially if they have pumpkin sage polenta.”

  Dan grimaced at the mere thought of the dish. “Who are you?”

  “Amity Carter.” Amity’s expression was solemn but her eyes danced. “I’m surprised you can be an effective minister if you have such difficulty with names.”

  Hope tried not to laugh at Dan’s perplexed expression. “I want a pumpkin scone.”

  John looped an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the tent. “Give me a caramel apple over a scone any day.”

  For a second Hope almost stepped away from him, then she remembered there was no need to keep her distance. With Chet, any public display of affection had been strictly verboten. Which was fine with her because she hadn’t really been attracted to him physically. John’s closeness made her feel all warm and tingly inside.

  Since the temperature outside had dipped into the forties and the tent was heated, the aisles were packed with people. Hope soon lost sight of Amity and Dan in the crowd but knew their paths would cross again eventually.

  John picked up caramel-apple bites at one booth and Hope got her pumpkin scone at another. She’d eaten about half of it when they paused at a small booth with stunning black-and-white photographs.

  “Ty,” John said when a broad-shouldered man with a thatch of brown hair asked if he could help them. He extended his hand. “It’s John Burke. And, of course, you know Hope Prentiss.”

  “I was glad to hear you were back.” Ty Rowen shook John’s hand, then he turned to Hope. “And I swear you get prettier every time I see you.”

  Though the smile remained on his lips, Hope could feel John stiffen beside her at the warmth in Ty’s voice.

  “How’s Katie?” she asked.

  “Doing well.” Ty grinned at John. “My wife and I are expecting our first child this summer.”

  “Congratulations.” John’s shoulders seemed to relax and he gestured to the pictures. “These are fantastic.”

  “Thanks. Photography is my thing. I feel blessed to be able to make a living doing something I love.” Ty turned to Hope. “I spoke with your aunt yesterday. I’ll be taking wedding photos at your place in December. I’m not sure who’s getting hitched. Verna was kind of vague about the details but we locked down the date and time.”

  “It’s going to be a small ceremony.” Hope thought about mentioning Luke and Laura’s names but she knew Ty’s mother had been a big General Hospital fan. She didn’t feel like hearing the jokes just now.

  They chatted with Ty for a few more minutes, with John buying a photograph that Hope admired of McGown Peak over Stanley Lake. She and John had once talked of camping in that area. Perhaps now they’d get the chance.

  “I’ll carry it.” John lifted the protective container from the counter. “But the photo is yours to keep.”

  “You didn’t need to buy it for me,” Hope said. She’d seen the price and couldn’t justify spending the money on such a luxury.

  “While I like making you happy, I admit I have an ulterior motive,” John said with a wicked smile. “I’m hoping every time you look at it, you’ll think of me . . . fondly.”

  “I will.” Hope threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you.”

  When she released him, he grinned and rocked back on his heels.

  “I’m sorry.” Hope felt her face redden as she caught a couple of people staring. “I probably shouldn’t do that with everyone around.”

  “Darlin’,” he slung an arm over her shoulder. “Let me make something perfectly clear. You can kiss me anytime, anywhere.”

  The next month flew by. John saw Hope every day. Their intimacy remained confined to good-night kisses. Though she still refused to sleep with him or say she loved him, he felt them growing closer. They spent hours sitting in front of the fire talking about what their lives had been like the past ten years and sharing future dreams.

  “I don’t understand why you work so much. If you’re not on your laptop doing payroll, you’re busy with Harmony Creek stuff,” John told her one evening in early November as they sat on his living room sofa, a blazing fire in the hearth. Outside, two inches of fluffy white snow blanketed the lawn. The onset of cold weather apparently made Hope think of tax season. Only seconds earlier she’d mentioned again how much she dreaded its start. “I’d think working for Verna and doing payroll for the banks would keep you busy enough. You can’t need the money. Especially when you factor in my income.”

  They may not have combined their assets yet, but John wanted to reinforce that they were a team and whatever he had was hers.

  Because his arm was around her shoulders, he felt her stiffen.

  “I have a strong work ethic.” She lifted her chin, the gesture warning him this was a hot spot for her. “People think they have all this money, then it’s gone and they’re left with nothing.”

  John carefully considered his response. Several weeks ago, during a late-night discussion, Hope had mentioned that her parents had spent money they didn’t have and were deeply in debt when they died. Because her voice had begun to shake at the memory, he hadn’t pushed for details. Still, it was clear their spending habits had profoundly impacted her attitude toward money.

  “If you continue to work all those jobs”—he spoke slowly, keeping his tone conversational—“how will you have time for what’s really important?”

  Hope’s head snapped back. Her scowl warned that once again he’d hit a nerve. “Are you complaining?”

  “I’m saying—”

  “Because when you got a sudden urge to go for pizza at three o’clock today, I went with you.” Hope shoved aside the cotton throw he’d draped across her lap moments earlier when she’d complained of being cold. “We both should have been working.”

  John raised a brow.

  “Responsible people work. They pay bills on time. They put money away for a rainy day.”

  “Responsible people also take time for those who are important in their life,” he said mildly. “One of the benefits of being your own boss is you set your own hours. If I’m not hungry when lunchtime rolls around or I’m in the middle of creating something, I keep working. Conversely, if I want to take a midafternoon break, that’s my privilege. I don’t see why it should be any different for you.”

  “We’re not talking about me.” Two bright swaths of red cut across her cheeks. “We’re talking about you.”

  “Okay.” John shoved his hands into his pockets. “Let’s talk about me.”

  “I have serious concerns about your work habits and how you handle your money.”

  His cheek stung as if she’d slapped him hard. Despite everything they’d shared in the last weeks, it appeared Hope still didn’t trust him to be a responsible partner. The only consolation was he now understood why she’d been unwilling to fully commit to him and their marriage.

  “Let’s start with work habits. I’ve never been late with a project.” John met her gaze steadily. “I may not work eight to five Monday through Friday, but creating art is different than a typical day job. When a design is percolating in my brain, sometimes performing mundane duties aroun
d the house or going for pizza helps me get clarity.”

  “I suppose I can see that,” she grudgingly admitted.

  Hardly a ringing endorsement. John rubbed his neck. It was time to get to the bottom of the deeper issue looming between them. “Tell me why you believe I’m not good with money.”

  She squirmed under his penetrating gaze.

  “One example.” His voice sounded flat, even to his ears.

  “Okay.” Hope surged to her feet and blew out a breath. “Today at the pizza place.”

  John cocked his head, puzzled by her return to a subject they’d just discussed.

  “You gave the waitress a huge tip.” She began to pace. “The rule is fifteen percent unless the service is stellar, then bump it to twenty percent. Our service was mediocre at best. I saw what you left her.”

  Her accusatory tone rubbed like a pair of too-tight shoes. An image of the gray-haired waitress with tired eyes flashed before him. “I left twenty dollars. Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things.”

  “She didn’t deserve that much.” Hope tossed the judgment out there, coupling the careless words with an equally careless shrug.

  John thought of his mother and the long hours she’d spent on her feet in a similar café. After his dad took off, her tips often made the difference between eating or not. He recalled her joy when someone left more than she expected and likely more than she deserved.

  He set his jaw and held on to his temper. “Who are you to say what someone deserves or doesn’t deserve?”

  The quiet vehemence in his tone had her eyes widening.

  “I may not know everything,” she insisted stubbornly, “but I know money. I’m telling you right now, I won’t be with someone who plays fast and loose with it.”

  The words hung in the air.

  The implication snaked around his heart, compressing it like a tight, unyielding cobra. She wasn’t threatening to end their marriage because of a generous tip; she was using the incident as an excuse to push him away.

  Facts didn’t matter.

  He didn’t matter.

  John’s anger re-fired on all circuits. “You think you have all the answers, but you don’t. You—”