How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  “Charlotte?”

  She turned around slowly.

  There he stood, feet braced apart, hands tucked in his pockets, shoving back the corners of his coat to reveal a black bow tie and suspenders. “I love you.”

  He closed the short distance between them and pulled her into his arms. “I love you, Charlotte. I have since the moment you turned around in that apron and sold me my first snickerdoodle. It’s always been you.”

  She allowed him to hold her, allowed her arms to hold him back. Allowed the tears streaming down her cheeks to pour like rain. But she couldn’t allow her heart to trust.

  “You reminded me what it was to want to live again,” he said. “You inspire me, Charlotte. You make me want to be a better man.”

  She closed her eyes as his words streamed over her. “I felt the same way, Will. You convinced me to trust again. You proved that men weren’t what I thought they were. But then you bailed. At the first sign of conflict, you disowned me.”

  He shook his head. “I’m an idiot, Charlotte.”

  She opened her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard that rumor.”

  “Melissa told me she talked to you.”

  She nodded.

  “Charlotte, please believe me. I reacted last night out of fear and frustration. I was wrong.”

  She wanted that to be true. So badly. Her fingers dug into his biceps, holding on for dear life. Afraid any minute she’d have to let go forever.

  “What I hadn’t realized until last night is that I’ve been living my own version of safe. Seeing Melissa on the floor like that, helpless—it brought it all back. Her accident, me thinking all these years it was my fault . . .” His voice trailed off. “I snapped. But Melissa’s taught me something that I’m finally starting to let sink in.”

  She felt her heart caving. Softening. Like butter in a mixing bowl. She wanted her hard edge back, but she was losing it. “What’s that?”

  “She’s learned to find the good in the bad. All these years I’ve stayed focused on the bad, afraid to look for good. Afraid I didn’t deserve to find it.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I’m a better man now than I was before her accident. I should be living up to that, rather than hiding from it.”

  She searched his eyes. He was telling the truth. “You realized all of that last night?”

  “I told you, you left way too early.” He ran a finger down her cheek. Even with the lingering remnants of anger and hurt, his touch still sent shivers down her spine. “Did you walk home? I called you ten times.”

  “Julie picked me up.” She squinted up at him. “And it was actually a dozen.”

  “Not that you were counting.” He pulled her close, his expression serious once more.

  “Do you forgive me, Charlotte?”

  She hesitated, wanting to be sure. Wanting to know she was safe. She tugged at one of his suspenders.

  “I’m not safe.” He whispered the words, low, close to her lips. “But you know what? You’re not, either. We’ll probably hurt each other again. There are never any real guarantees.”

  That truth sank in hard and deep. She tightened her grip on the suspender strap. He was right. But how could she keep risking her heart over and over?

  His voice deepened an octave as his grip around her waist tightened. “One thing I can guarantee. I love you.”

  She looked at him. “You were wrong about one thing.”

  He eased back, concern spreading across his face. “What’s that?”

  “You most definitely can’t rock a bow tie.”

  “Hey now—”

  She cut off his indignant protest with a kiss, one that lifted her to her tiptoes and quickened his heartbeat beneath her hand.

  She pulled back for a breath. “And by the way . . .”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I love you too.”

  She reached over, snagged the icing-covered cake remains from the cart, and smashed them straight into his face.

  Then she kissed him.

  He tasted like buttercream.

  Love Arrives in Pieces

  All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes

  A February Bride: A Year of Weddings Novella

  Betsy St. Amant lives in Louisiana with her young daughter and has a heart for sharing the amazing news of God’s grace through her novels. A freelance journalist, Betsy is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. When she’s not reading, writing, or singing along to a Disney soundtrack with her daughter, Betsy enjoys inspirational speaking and teaching on the craft of writing.

  VISIT HER WEBSITE AT WWW.BETSYSTAMANT.COM

  FACEBOOK: BETSYST.AMANT

  TWITTER: @BETSYSTAMANT

  For Mom.

  You listened raptly to my little-girl stories. It gave me courage to write the bigger ones.

  “Get off the sidelines, Amelia.”

  I’d heard this approximately 624 times in the past twelve years. Once a week, from the lips of my best friend, Rachel. We were an unlikely pair—Rachel and I. About as opposite as two people could be. If not for sharing a small dorm room on the tenth floor of Witte Hall in Madison, Wisconsin, our freshman year, I’m confident our paths never would have crossed. Or if they had, we wouldn’t have given each other a second look. I’m also confident I wouldn’t have lasted a single semester at such a big college without her. But we did share a room, and our unlikely friendship tethered me to Madison when homesickness yanked mercilessly at my heartstrings.

  According to Rachel, I lived timid.

  “It’s time to get in the game already,” she liked to say. “Enough watching. Start experiencing!”

  As I took a left-hand turn onto Mulberry Avenue, I couldn’t help but wonder what Rachel would say about this. Nothing good, I’m sure. In my defense, when the man you thought you’d marry—the only man you’d ever dated—weds another woman in a town not more than thirty minutes away, it’s only natural to spy. I had planned to drive by the church as inconspicuously as possible to see what I could see, then drive back to my quirky hometown of Mayfair, Wisconsin, where nobody would be the wiser. I should have known by then that life—at least for me—rarely went as planned.

  My sweat-slicked palms grew sweatier as the steeple arose over a row of maple trees, their green leaves giving way to the faintest hints of yellow and orange. White, puffy clouds rolled across blue sky, forcing the sun into a game of peek-a-boo. I slowed to a stop at a streetlight, praying nobody would recognize me.

  Thanks to Rachel’s friendship and my decision to stay in Madison, I ended up meeting Matt in my second semester Poli Sci class freshman year. We dated for four years, which meant his family knew me. And then there was the matter of my stepsisters—both bridesmaids—to consider. If either caught me spying, I’d never hear the end of it. They would assume I still loved Matt, which wasn’t true. Our relationship had ended years ago. My broken heart had long since mended. I was simply curious.

  The light turned green. I pulled the bill of my hat down low and eased onto the gas. The steeple loomed taller. Parked cars lined the street on both sides—an overflow due to the too-small church parking lot. The maples broke apart at the same time as the clouds, and there it was—the church, bathed in sunlight. Several bridesmaids stood outside on the front lawn, my stepsisters among them. My cantering heart accelerated into a gallop. I slid down in the seat and observed what I could as discreetly as possible.

  They wore strapless tea-length dresses in light mocha. Not tight-fitting satin, but a flowing chiffon. Each one carried bouquets of yellow, white, and peach. I tipped my sunglasses up and squinted out the open window. Cabbage roses, mums, billy balls, and ranunculus. Not too fallish, but not too summery either. A perfect September bouquet that matched the dresses wonderfully. I craned my neck to soak up some more details, but my foray into spying was going . . . going . . . gone.

  Perhaps once more around the block wouldn’t be too conspicuous. The street in front of the church wasn’t bustling with traffic, but it wasn’t
empty of it either, and I was wearing a hat and sunglasses. My tan Honda Accord was pretty standard fare when it came to cars. And I hadn’t even seen the bride or the groom. I peeled my attention away from the shrinking wedding party in my rearview mirror when everything in me seized. My heart, my muscles, my grip on the steering wheel. I inhaled a sharp, loud, gasping breath and slammed my foot onto the brake. I wasn’t quick enough.

  My Honda rear-ended the car in front of me.

  For a second, or maybe two, I didn’t move. I sat behind the wheel, staring wide-eyed at the back end of a maroon Subaru Outback with a sticker on the rear window that said Team Oxford Comma. It wasn’t until the driver stepped out that panic set in. Full-throttle, mortifying panic. The kind that made me want to curl into a ball underneath the steering wheel and never come out again. Or hit the gas and take off—my first and hopefully only hit-and-run. One thing was certain. I couldn’t get out of my car. Not with the wedding party a block away. But the driver stood at the place our two cars met, shielding his eyes from the sun and surveying the damage, leaving me no choice but to join him.

  I snagged my purse from the passenger seat and slipped outside. “I am so, so sorry!”

  The man I approached had a head full of thick, dark hair, nicely gelled, and wore well-fitting tan dress pants with a matching suit coat draped over his arm, a white dress shirt, and a gold tie. I could only assume he was a wedding guest. Thankfully not one of Matt’s college friends. I didn’t recognize him at all.

  He squinted against the sun. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Besides the heart palpitations anyway. “Are you?”

  “I’ve survived worse.” He smiled when he said it, but any and all humor was lost on me at the moment. Perhaps someday I would laugh at this. A long, long time from now, when it didn’t feel like the world’s most embarrassing thing ever to happen.

  “I can’t believe I ran into you like that,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Really. There was no damage done, see?” He patted his body to show himself intact.

  “Yes, there was. I put a dent in your bumper.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, thankful the hat covered my copper-colored locks from view. They were too recognizable. “I wasn’t paying attention. It was completely my fault. I’m really, truly sorry.”

  He smiled again, like my level of remorse amused him.

  I shot a nervous glance over my shoulder. One of my stepsisters peered through the afternoon brightness in my direction. My panic peaked. I dug inside my purse, pulled out a business card, and shoved it into the man’s hand. “This has my e-mail and phone number. Please get in touch with me, and I’ll—I’ll get you my insurance information.”

  He looked down at the card, then back at me with his head slightly atilt.

  I’d already started backpedaling. “I’m very sorry. I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I glanced again over my shoulder. One stepsister was now nudging the other stepsister, pointing in my direction. “It’s an emergency, actually.”

  His head tilt grew more pronounced.

  “Please get in touch with me. I promise to plead one hundred percent guilty. Really, I’m so sorry.” Before the man could object, I dove inside my car, reversed, shifted into drive, and drove away. As fast as the speed limit would carry me.

  From: gallagher24@gmail.com

  To: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  Date: Sun, Sep 13, 2015 8:06 p.m.

  Subject: Brief Encounter

  Dear Ms. Woods,

  Is that too formal? It feels formal. But I’m not sure what the proper protocol is when addressing someone I met in such circumstances. My name is Nate. I’m the gentleman you bumped into this past Saturday outside Good Shepherd Episcopal Church—the one on Mulberry Avenue? I don’t know why I’m feeling the need to be so specific. Unless you make a habit of running into cars often, you probably remember the incident just fine without any prodding.

  You were in a bit of a hurry. I must admit, it felt a little bit like meeting Cinderella at the end of the ball, only instead of leaving behind a glass slipper, you left me with a flowery business card. The name on the card given to me said Amelia Woods, so I’m assuming you are the right person. If not, I apologize for the confusion.

  You asked that I contact you regarding insurance information. I wanted to let you know that it’s not necessary. The bumper isn’t so much dented as minutely scratched. Nothing a little spit and polish won’t fix. There’s no need to worry, and I say this only because you seemed very worried during our brief encounter on Saturday. I hope your emergency wasn’t too serious and that everything worked itself out.

  All the best,

  Nate Gallagher

  “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”

  —C. S. Lewis

  From: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  To: gallagher24@gmail.com

  Date: Mon, Sep 14, 2015 6:23 a.m.

  Subject: Re: Brief Encounter

  Dear Nate,

  I am incredibly embarrassed and really very sorry. I promise I’m not usually so scattered and frantic, nor do I make a habit of fleeing the scene of an accident. It didn’t hit me until later that what I did was most likely illegal. Saturday was . . . I don’t even know what to call it. An unusual sort of day. It’s probably best if I leave it at that.

  Thank you for being so kind and gracious, but I insist on filing a claim. Despite being in a hurry, I did see the dent. I don’t think spit and polish will fix it. Please send me your full name and insurance information, and I will call. It would make me feel better.

  My apologies,

  Amelia

  PS: The subject line of your e-mail made me think of that old black-and-white movie with Celia Johnson. Have you seen it? So many people think it’s a romantic movie. I happen to think it’s depressing.

  Inhaling the tantalizing scent of pumpkin muffins one last time, I waved good-bye to Eloise over my shoulder and exited her bakery. Overhead, the sky was every bit as blue as the flower my store was named after—the Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop, located on the corner of Marietta and Main, directly across the street from the gazebo in the middle of Mayfair’s town square.

  Taking a sip of hot coffee from my thermos, I unlocked the front door and flipped the lights. Most people dreaded Monday mornings, but not me. I, Amelia Rose Woods, loved the beginning of a new workweek. Because I, Amelia Rose Woods, loved everything about my job. Meeting with brides about their big day, designing corsages and boutonnieres for high school dances. Arranging bouquets for birthdays and anniversaries and apologies and just-because-I-love-yous. Receiving the fresh flowers that arrived each morning in the back of Wally’s van. Even coming alongside the grief-stricken as they bid farewell to a loved one.

  I turned on the glue guns and the glue pans, set my coffee and the bag of goodies on the front counter, and looked up at the picture hanging behind it—my mother and me standing in front of this very shop before my first day of kindergarten. We shared the same copper hair, the same fair skin, the same spray of freckles over the same small nose, except I had gray-blue eyes instead of brown and a pointier chin. In the picture, I wore a jean skirt with pink hearts stitched into the hem, my hair in pigtails. One of my small hands clutched onto my mother’s. The other held a small bouquet of daisies for my new teacher. Earlier that morning, Mom had let me put the bouquet together all by myself. Warmth filled my chest. The deep-down-in-your-soul kind of warmth. She’d be so happy if she could see me now.

  With a smile on my face and thanksgiving in my heart, I printed the orders that came in overnight. A bouquet that needed delivering by noon and one more that needed delivering by six. And then there were the four centerpiece arrangements for the annual book club meeting at the public library in Apple Creek. There were no funerals today, and while I had a wedding this weekend, I’d already placed the order. We wouldn’t start putting the actual bouquets and arrangements together until midweek. I picked up t
he phone and dialed my part-time assistant, Astrid. She had worked at Forget-Me-Not for two years now, mostly on an as-needed basis. I left a message explaining that she didn’t need to come in, then got to work on the arrangements in the storefront cooler while waiting for Wally and his flower van to arrive.

  He came every morning at nine fifteen, leaving me just enough time to clean up and arrange the flowers before opening the doors at ten. I pulled out bad stems, added new ones, refreshed the water, then cleaned all the shelves and doors. By the time I finished, Wally had pulled up outside on the street.

  “Morning, Wal,” I said, meeting him by the rear hatch. “How are the flowers looking today?”

  “As fresh and as pretty as you.” He smiled his snaggletoothed smile. He was a rough-looking fellow. Not at all the type you’d expect to drive a flower van.

  I shooed off his compliment and handed him the bag from Eloise’s, a giant-sized chocolate chip–pumpkin muffin tucked inside.

  He opened the bag and took a big whiff.

  I opened the rear hatch and did the same. “Any extras today?”

  “Yes, actually. An abundance of alstroemeria.” He pulled out the bucket. “I can add it to your next bill if you want some.”

  They were a gorgeous shade of golden yellow. I stuck my nose in the blooms and inhaled deeply. “Why the abundance?”

  “There was a big order cancellation.”

  “Well, I’ll definitely take some.”

  Wally got to work unloading my end-of-the-week orders from Saturday, along with some unexpected alstroemeria. Once my bounty was inside, I cleaned and cut the stems, put them in new buckets with fresh water and flower food, stored them in the cooler, and went out front to switch the sign from Closed to Open. I swept up the mess and had just finished the by-noon arrangement when the bell on my front door chimed.

  I didn’t have to look up to see who it was.