How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  But even as the plan began to take shape, John thought of the promises he’d made—to God, to Verna, to Hope.

  In his heart John knew if he ran, it wouldn’t be because he thought it’d be best for Hope. Regardless of what Chet seemed to think, Hope was a strong woman who had no trouble making her own decisions. No, if he left it’d be because he was worried Hope would never love him, that she would never feel about him the way he felt about her.

  John realized fear had been the reason he hadn’t stayed and fought for Hope all those years ago. He’d thought he wasn’t someone worth loving. His dad had walked out without a backward glance. His mom had died and left him alone.

  But he wasn’t a scared boy anymore. What had Dan said in last week’s sermon . . . that God doesn’t give us a spirit of fear?

  God never breaks promises, and neither would John. He wouldn’t walk away from the woman he loved. He would stay. He would fight for their marriage and Hope’s love.

  And he would comfort himself with the belief that one day she would love him.

  Hope hurried to the stairwell when she heard the front door open.

  John looked up from where he stood in the foyer as she descended the steps, his expression unreadable.

  “How’d the ceremony go?” It was an inane thing to say but the best she could muster. Seeing him, she felt suddenly shy and unsure.

  John lifted a block of etched glass in the shape of Idaho on a wooden base.

  “It’s a beauty.” His smile flashed briefly. “Everyone sends their best. They were all upset about Verna’s accident. Except for Chet Tuttle. He’s more upset you and I are still together.”

  Hope frowned.

  “Are we still together?”

  The question said in a flat tone sent icy fear slithering up her spine. “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Our argument earlier.”

  Though his posture remained relaxed, Hope noticed a flicker of something that looked like fear hidden deep in his eyes. She forced a light tone. “Oh, you’re referring to our discussion.”

  He leveled a long look at her.

  “I’m pretty sure I was being unreasonable,” she admitted, offering a rueful smile. “In fact, I’m certain of it.”

  “My mom used to be a waitress,” he told her as if their earlier conversation had never been interrupted. “Sometimes, after my dad left, the extra money she earned from tips bought our food.”

  While she considered a response that would convey she truly did understand, Hope lifted the award from his hand and placed it on the side table. This brought her close to him, which was right where she wanted to be.

  “When I see someone waiting tables who appears to be struggling, I like to help them out.” He met her gaze. “That’s not going to change.”

  “I don’t want you to change.” Hope rested her hand on his arm, her gaze remaining on his.

  “I just thought you should know.”

  “And you should know I’m not going to do taxes anymore,” Hope announced and saw surprise skitter across his face. “You were right. Financially, there’s no need and I don’t enjoy it. What I do enjoy is spending time with you and Verna. I like having the option of going for pizza at three in the afternoon if the mood strikes me or my husband.”

  A light flared in his eyes. Though he hadn’t yet noticed she was wearing her wedding ring, she knew he hadn’t missed the significance of her use of the word husband.

  “Chet stopped me when I was leaving the courthouse. He said I was holding you back, that I needed to let you go. But I won’t just walk away from you. You have to tell me to go and mean it.”

  “Chet Tuttle doesn’t have a clue how I feel about you.” Hope closed the last few inches that separated them. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gazed into those amazing blue eyes. “If he did, he’d know I’m hopelessly in love with my husband. I’m only sorry it took me this long to say it.”

  John drew her to him and held her close, not saying a word.

  “I love you.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I never stopped.”

  His lips brushed her cheek. “It’s the same for me.”

  “Look.” She stepped back and lifted her ring hand. “It’s on and it’s staying there.”

  His smile flashed as bright as a bolt of sunshine. He bent to kiss her, but as she melted against him her foot hit something on the floor. John’s arms tightened around her as she stumbled.

  “What in the—” Hope glanced at her feet. She narrowed her eyes. “How did that end up on the floor?”

  Always the gentleman, John retrieved the box and handed it to her.

  She smiled at the return address. “I bet these are Luke and Laura’s wedding invitations. I wonder which ones Verna ended up ordering.”

  John nuzzled her neck. “If you’re curious, open it.”

  She giggled as he continued to scatter kisses against her throat. Grasping the front of his coat, Hope pressed a hard kiss against his mouth before releasing him and focusing on the box.

  Lifting out one of the invitations, she read for a second, then gasped.

  John’s fingers, which had been toying with a strand of her hair, stilled. “Surely they can’t be that bad.”

  Words failed her. Hope could only gesture mutely at the invitation in her hand.

  John took the embossed paper from her. As he read aloud, his lips curved.

  From every valley to every summit, faithfully yours forever

  Miss Verna Prentiss

  Asks you to join her in honoring

  Hope Anne Prentiss

  fnd

  John William Burke

  As they celebrate the beginning of their lives together

  and exchange vows of commitment

  December twentieth at five o’clock

  Mistletoe Inn at Harmony Creek

  Two lives, two hearts united forever in love

  Hope glanced at John. “You know what this means?”

  “We’re Luke and Laura.” He grinned. “And we’re about to have a proper wedding.”

  Hope stood outside the parlor of Mistletoe Inn, which had been transformed into a Christmas bridal chapel. Garlands of evergreen, pinecones, and white lights adorned the window ledges. Chairs covered with sheer red fabric and ruffles added a festive air, as did the large urns filled with red roses, white calla lilies, and eucalyptus decorating the small platform at the front where they’d soon repeat their vows. Every chair in the room was filled. Despite all the holiday festivities and the lateness of the invitations, every guest had showed up.

  Resplendent in his dark tux, John waited with Pastor Dan at the edge of the platform.

  The dress Hope had picked out in the bridal shop two months earlier fit perfectly. Verna had given her a blue garter to wear that she’d bought long ago for her own wedding. Hope was touched. Not only by the offer of something so precious, but by everything her aunt had continued to do to make this day special.

  Amity stood beside Hope in a tea-length black satin dress that hugged her curvy figure like a glove. With her hair pulled back in a waterfall braid, she somehow managed to look elegant yet adorable.

  The two women stood just outside the entrance to the room waiting for the piano to switch from the fifteen-minute set of romantic songs to the processional, Canon in D. That would signal it was time for her trip down the aisle.

  After giving Pastor Dan a jaunty wave and flirty smile, Amity shifted her attention back to Hope. “What did you think of Sylvie calling your aunt and offering to make the cake?”

  Hope froze. Had she and Verna even discussed the cake? “Sylvie, the Mad Batter?”

  “There’s only one.”

  Hope closed her eyes briefly.

  “Don’t worry.” Amity placed a gloved hand on Hope’s arm. “Syl knows exactly the kind of cake you prefer. She told your aunt how you’d raved over the one she displayed at the Bridal Expo. Verna said that’s the one she should make.”

  Swall
owing hard, Hope offered a faint smile. “Would that be the striped one with the . . . skulls?”

  Fairly quivering with excitement, Amity nodded. “It’s amazing.”

  “Fabulous.” As she said the word, Hope realized it was true. What was a couple of skulls between friends? And knowing Sylvie’s baking skills, the cake would be melt-in-her-mouth delicious.

  Amity searched her face as the processional music began. “Ready for this, Chickadee?”

  “I love him, Am.” Hope’s heart swelled. “I can’t wait to say my vows again, in front of friends and family. I want everyone to know just how much John means to me and how committed I am to this marriage.”

  Verna hurried over, her eyes shining with excitement and pride.

  As Hope followed Amity down the red carpet runner with her arm linked through Verna’s, her eyes met John’s.

  Every emotion was there. The love, the promise, the “’Til death us do part.” Thinking of all the adventures they would share in the future, Hope hurried down the aisle to her husband to begin the next stage of their lives together.

  Cindy Kirk sold her first book in 1999 as a result of a contest win, which garnered a critique of the entire manuscript. She’s been writing—and selling—ever since. Cindy has been a Booksellers’ Best Award winner, a finalist for the National Readers’ Choice Awards, and a Publishers Weekly bestseller. Cindy has served on the board of directors of the Romance Writers of America (RWA) since 2007. In November 2014, she began serving as president of the 10,000+ member organization. She’s a frequent speaker at not only the national RWA conferences, but large regional writing conferences. She has also presented at smaller retreats and conferences across the country. She lives on an acreage in Nebraska with her high school sweetheart husband of too-many-years-to-count and their three “boys” (a shih tzu, a blue heeler, and a dorkie). Their daughter lives close by with her wonderful husband and their two little girls.

  Cindy invites you to check out her website,

  www.cindykirk.com.

  Twitter: @CindyKirkAuth

  To

  Susie Warren

  Beth Vogt

  Alena Tauriainen

  For being there . . .

  The crazy January day it snowed in Rosebud, Alabama, Ginger Winters sensed a shift in her soul.

  In the distance, pealing church bells clashed with the moan of the wind cutting down Main Street.

  “Have you ever?” Ruby-Jane, Ginger’s receptionist, best friend, and all-around girl Friday, opened the front door, letting the warmth out and the cold in. “Snow in Rosebud. Two hours from the Florida coast and we have snow.” She breathed deep. “Glorious.” Then she frowned. “Are those the church bells?”

  “For the wedding . . . this weekend.” Ginger joined Ruby-Jane by the door, folding her arms, hugging herself. “If you’re Bridgett Maynard, even the wedding bells get rehearsed.”

  Ruby-Jane glanced at Ginger. “I thought they were getting married at her grandparents’ plantation.”

  “They are, but at four o’clock, when the wedding starts at the Magnolia House, the bells of Applewood Church will be ringing.”

  “Disturbing all of us who didn’t get an invite.” Ruby-Jane made a face. “It’s a sad thing when your friend from kindergarten turns on you in junior high and ignores you the rest of your life.”

  “Look at it this way. Bridgett dropped you and you found me.” Ginger gave her a wide-eyed, isn’t-that-grand expression, tapping the appointment book tucked under RJ’s arm. “What’s up with the day’s appointments?”

  “Mrs. Davenport pitched a fit but I told her we were moving appointments around since you didn’t want anyone driving in this mess. And you know Mrs. Carney wanted you to come out to the house but I told her you weren’t driving either.”

  “Sweet Mrs. Carney.”

  “Demanding Mrs. Carney.”

  “Come on, RJ, she’s been coming to this very shop, with its various owners, since after the Second World War. She’s a beauty shop faithful.”

  “Either way, she can go a day without you blowing out her hair. Maggie never catered to these blue hairs.”

  “Because Maggie was one of them. I’m still earning their respect.”

  “You have their respect. Maggie wouldn’t have sold you this shop unless she believed in you. So they have to believe in you.”

  The wind rattled the window and skirted tiny snowflakes across the threshold. “Brrr, it’s cold, Rubes. Shut the door.” Ginger crossed the salon. “I think today . . .” She pointed at the walls. “We paint.”

  “Paint?” Ruby-Jane walked the appointment book back to the reservation desk. “How about this? We lock up, go home, sit in front of the TV, and mourn the fact that All My Children is off the air.”

  “Or, how about we paint?” Ginger motioned to the back room and shoved up her sleeves, a rare move, but since the doors were shut, the shop was closed, and snow was falling, she didn’t mind exposing her puckered, relief-map skin. “We can use the old smocks to cover our clothes.”

  Ruby-Jane had been the first person outside of Mama and Grandpa to ever see the hideous wounds left on her body after the trailer fire.

  At the age of twelve, everything changed for Ginger Winters. But out of the pain, one good thing emerged: her superpower to see and display the beauty in her friends. Despite her own ugly marring, she was the go-to girl in high school for hair and makeup.

  It was how she survived. How she found purpose. Her ability took her to amazing places. But now she was back in Rosebud after twelve years, starting a new season with her own shop.

  She’d left home to become a known stylist, fleeing her “burn victim” image.

  And she’d succeeded, or so she thought, landing top salon jobs in New York, Atlanta, and finally Nashville, traveling the world as personal stylist to country music sensation Tracie Blue.

  But the truth remained, even among her success. Ginger was that girl, ugly and scarred, forever on the outside looking in.

  Face it, some things would never change. If she hoped different, all she had to do was look at her role in her old “friend’s” wedding. The hired help.

  Ginger tugged the paint cans from the storage closet. Six months ago, when she returned to Rosebud and signed the papers for the shop, she ran out to Lowe’s and purchased a pinkish-beige paint to roll on the walls, giving the old shop a fresh look and a new smell, adding her touch to the historic downtown storefront.

  But Maggie kept a full appointment book and Ginger hit the ground running, with only enough time to paint and decorate her above-shop apartment.

  Then the two long-time stylists who had worked for Maggie retired. And ten-hour days turned to fifteen until Ginger hired Michele and Casey, part-time stylists and full-time moms.

  Painting had to wait.

  “Can we at least order lunch?” Ruby-Jane tugged open the doors of the supply closet, the long-handle roller brushes toppling down on her. With a sigh, she collected them, settling them against the wall.

  “Yes, pizza. On me.”

  “Ah, I love you, Ginger Winters. You’re speaking my language.”

  Kneeling beside the paint can, Ginger pried off the lid and filled the paint trays, then moved to the shop and dragged the styling stations toward the center, covering the old hardwood floor around the perimeter with paper and visqueen.

  “Have to admit, I love this old shop,” RJ said, pausing between the shop and the back room.

  “Me too.” Ginger raised her gaze, glancing about the timeworn, much-loved room. “Don’t you wish these walls could talk?”

  Ruby-Jane laughed. “Yes, because I’d like to hear some of the old stories. No, because talking walls would really freak me out.” She eyed Ginger, pointing. “But one day these walls will tell our stories.”

  “Can we go back to talking walls freaking you out?” Ginger laughed with a huff as she pulled the last station away from the wall. “I don’t want any stories going around about me.”
>
  She’d heard them already. Freak. Ugly. She gives me the creeps.

  “I think the walls will tell lovely stories: Ginger Winters made women feel good about themselves.”

  She smiled at Ruby-Jane, the eternal optimist. “Okay, then I can go with the talking walls. Okay . . . painting. Shoo wee, this is a big wall. Let’s do the right side first. Then, as time allows, we’ll finish the rest. With the right side done, we’ll be more motivated to get the rest done.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Adjusting the scarf around her neck, Ginger smoothed her hair over her right shoulder, further covering herself. While she had the courage to shove up her sleeve and expose her scarred arm, she wasn’t brazen enough to expose her neck and the horrible skin graft debacle.

  Two infections and three surgeries later, Mama had given up on doctors and decided to “leave well enough alone.”

  Ginger had cried herself to sleep at night, her hand pressed over the most hideous wrinkled, puckered skin patch at the base of her neck.

  She knew then she’d never be beautiful.

  “You can have a social life if you want,” RJ said, helping her with the last station.

  “Who said I wanted one?” Ginger headed for the storeroom. “Let’s get painting.”

  Five minutes later, their rollers thick with paint, Ginger and Ruby-Jane covered the wall with fresh color, their beloved country tunes filling the air pockets with twang.

  “You ready?” RJ said. “For this weekend? One bride, seven bridesmaids, two mothers, three grandmothers—”

  “Yep. Just a walk in the park, Kazansky.”

  “I still can’t believe she didn’t invite me. We were good friends until high school.”

  “Maybe because you dated Eric for awhile after they broke up.”

  “Well, there’s that.” Sigh. After graduation, when Bridgett and Eric went their separate ways, Ruby-Jane was more than eager to be the new future Mrs. Eric James.

  “As for dropping you in high school, I don’t know, but her loss was my gain.” There were no truer words in this moment. With an exhale, Ginger relaxed into the repeating motion of rolling on paint.