How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  Mea culpa,

  Amelia

  PS: This e-mail has officially taken me thirty minutes to type out, as I’m sending it from my iPhone. I strongly dislike sending e-mails from my iPhone for this very reason. Most days I want my flip phone back.

  From: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  To: galvison_rach@hotmail.com

  Date: Tue, Sep 15, 2015 8:41 a.m.

  Subject: I’m the world’s biggest basket case

  Rachel,

  I am mortified.

  I caught Bridget with another guy yesterday, on the cusp of finding out William had purchased an engagement ring. In my panic, I sent you an e-mail. Or at least I thought I sent you an e-mail. Turns out, it didn’t go to you. It went to this guy named Nate, who I hit with my car (long story). He must think I’m psycho. Anyway, I need advice on what to do. William is head-over-heels in love with this girl. You saw them together with your own eyes. If I tell him that I caught Bridget with another man, he’ll be crushed. But of course, I have to tell him. Better he know now than find out after the wedding, right? Please call or e-mail as soon as possible.

  Miss you terribly,

  Amelia

  PS: I have now officially quadruple-checked to make sure I’m sending this to the right person!!

  At five o’clock, I began my closing routine. My delivery guy, who was no longer sick, had taken all the orders that needed delivering before six, except the arrangements for my stepsisters’ party. I would bring those with me. I’d received three phone calls from my stepmother throughout the day ensuring that I wouldn’t forget them. It was more than we’d spoken all year. I finished organizing the back cooler, then began the task of cleaning out the dirty stem buckets with soap and water. I organized and filed the orders that needed to go out tomorrow and was sweeping the floor behind the counter when the front bell jingled. I looked up from the growing pile of leafy debris.

  It was William, looking even giddier today than he had yesterday.

  My broom stopped.

  He spread his arms wide. “She said yes.”

  The knot of dread in my gut doubled.

  “Your baby bro is officially engaged to be married to the love of his life.” William met me at the front of the store. “We were supposed to go to dinner last night, but something came up and Bridget had to cancel. Since I couldn’t wait, I ended up surprising her at her school yesterday afternoon. Her students clapped and cheered. And she loved the flowers.”

  “Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. Or do. Bridget had said yes to my brother’s proposal, then gone out on a date with another man that very same evening. If I wasn’t so filled with concern and heartbreak for William, I would have been steaming hot mad. Seriously, how dare she?

  My brother’s smile drooped at the corners. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Amelia . . .”

  “No, it’s nothing. Really. I’m just . . .” Just what? Shocked? Upset? Conflicted? I had no idea what to say. I needed Rachel! “A little emotional. I mean, you’re getting married.”

  “It’s crazy, eh? When did we get so old?”

  “Hey, I have six years on you, buddy. If you’re old, then I’m ancient.”

  William laughed. “Is your calendar free for October twenty-fourth?”

  “What’s October twenty-fourth?”

  “The day I nab myself a wife.”

  If I’d been drinking something, I would have spit it out. Good thing William had waited until the end of the day to tell me. My coffee was long gone. “Why so soon?”

  “Because when you’re as in love as Bridget and me, there’s no reason to wait. We’re ready to be married, and since we don’t want anything huge or fancy for a wedding, it won’t take long to plan. Besides”—William’s attention flickered toward the framed photograph on the wall over my head—“October’s when Mom and Dad got married. It’s a great month. Bridget and I are hoping you’ll do the flowers.”

  He was right, of course. When the weather cooperated, October weddings were beautiful. October weddings between a wonderful, godly man and his cheating fiancée, on the other hand? Not so much. My mind fast-forwarded to the event. I imagined the other man showing up. A huge confrontation in the middle of the church. Bridget trouncing off with her secret lover, leaving my brokenhearted brother at the altar.

  “Amelia?”

  My eyelids fluttered. “What was that?”

  “Can you do the flowers?”

  “Oh . . . sure. I’ll have to check the calendar, but yes. I should be able to.”

  “Great. Bridget and I will see you tonight at Mackinaws.” He tapped the counter a few times with his palms and shot me a wink. “She’ll be the one with the brand-new ring on her finger.”

  Mackinaws was on Voyager Drive in Green Bay—a restaurant built from huge pine logs and beams with massive vaulted ceilings and six stone fireplaces and impressive animal mounts—the two largest of which were a bear and an eighteen-point buck. My stepmother, Jeanine, had booked their loft for the party. It sat up to a hundred, which seemed like a crazy amount of people for a birthday party, but Candace and Crystal would have no problem filling the space. Whereas I tended to have one or two close, intimate friends, my stepsisters were perpetually popular and kept a big crowd of friends, some hailing all the way back to elementary school.

  I stepped inside, holding two of the six arrangements Jeanine ordered a month ago. Bouquets of snow-white roses, lilies, and mums, filled out with wispy baby’s breath and silvery dusty miller and plastic pearl sprays. I hated working with baby’s breath, mostly because it smelled like cat pee. But Jeanine had cast the vision, and when she cast a vision, nobody could change her mind. So here I was, carrying these two elegant winter-esque arrangements inside a restaurant that screamed north woods.

  Upstairs Jeanine was a bustle of activity, simultaneously checking in on guests and micromanaging the two teenage servers arranging the food—trays of smoked salmon, bacon-wrapped chestnuts, fruit, vegetables, cheeses, a taco bar. I wondered how much debt she was racking up on her credit card for this particular soiree. My stepmother was cursed with a rich woman’s appetite and a middle-class budget—a common source of contention between her and my father when I was growing up.

  She spotted me setting the two arrangements on the nearest table and came over, her face bright. She looked entirely too young to be the mother of thirty-year-old twins. Mostly because she went to the salon every six weeks to hide all traces of gray, worked out an hour each day to keep her physique, wore an entire cosmetic aisle of makeup, and I suspected did Botox, but I wasn’t exactly sure on that last one. She gave her hands a few excited claps beneath her chin. “The flowers are here!”

  “The rest of the arrangements are in the car.”

  She rearranged a few of the roses. “The baby’s breath looks a little wilted. We better get the others before it gets any worse.”

  I gritted my teeth and smiled, then told her she could stay here. I’d get the flowers. After two more trips up and down the loft, I escaped into the restroom. All the people in attendance were either strangers or old acquaintances from my days living in Green Bay. The only two who wouldn’t be strangers or acquaintances were William and Bridget, but I couldn’t be around them tonight. I had no idea how to act cheery or congratulatory when I felt so far from either. I was a lousy faker. And as much as I wanted to unload the heavy burden resting on my shoulders and tell my brother the truth about his fiancée, Jeanine would absolutely throw a fit if I did it before Candace and Crystal’s party.

  I took my time washing and drying my hands and studied myself in the mirror. I looked more wilted than the baby’s breath. “An hour, Amelia. You can handle an hour.”

  With that, I joined the growing crowd. William and Bridget had arrived during my bathroom break. Jeanine stood next to them by the food table. She fussed over Bridget’s ring, then wrapped William in a big hug. The sight set off a pang of sadness in my heart. Even all th
ese years later, I missed my mom.

  As if sensing my thoughts, William made eye contact with me over Jeanine’s shoulder. They came apart, and he thrust his hand up in the air to wave. He grabbed Bridget’s hand and made his way toward me. Thankfully, one of Jeanine’s friends intercepted them before they could get very far, and I made a beeline to the other side of the room, where the crowd was thickest. My mature plan of action? Avoid William and Bridget until I knew how to handle the situation.

  I squeezed between two groups of people and tapped a gentleman’s shoulder to get past. He turned around, his eyebrows going from neutral to high up on his forehead. “Amelia!”

  I nearly choked. “Matt?”

  “Wow, it’s been such a long time.” His attention flickered down and up—a quick, innocent check out. “You look great.”

  “Um, thanks. H-how are you?”

  “Good. I just got married, actually.” He put his free hand on the small of a woman’s back, pulling her away from her conversation. “I’d love for you to meet my wife. Man, it sounds weird saying that.”

  The petite, dark-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful-skinned woman beside him slapped him playfully in the stomach, then slipped under his arm, where she fit perfectly. “You better get used to it, buddy.”

  He smiled. “Chelsea, meet Amelia. Amelia, meet Chelsea.”

  My name made Chelsea’s entire posture perk. “Amelia, as in the Amelia? I can’t believe I finally get to meet Matt’s college sweetheart!” There wasn’t a trace of phoniness in her tone. She sounded and looked genuinely happy. “I know your sisters and I are friends, but it’s great to actually meet you. I feel like I ought to give you a hug.”

  And so she did. She wrapped one arm around my neck for a brief, friendly squeeze.

  I tried not to feel awkward. And reminded myself—on repeat—that they didn’t know I’d been spying on them this past Saturday. “Congratulations on the wedding.”

  Chelsea beamed. “Thanks!”

  “Are you two not going on a honeymoon?”

  “Oh, we are. I made this guy promise me that.” She squeezed his waist. “Right, Matty?”

  “We had to delay it a bit because of work. We’re leaving on Monday.”

  I pulled at the collar of my shirt. “Where to?”

  “California’s wine country,” Chelsea said. “I’ve always wanted to tour a vineyard. Italy was too far for a week, so we decided this would be the next best thing. Have you ever been?”

  Matt laughed, a jovial glint in his eye. “When we dated, Amelia hadn’t even been on a plane.”

  “Well, that was six years ago, Matty. I’m sure she’s been on a plane by now.”

  My ears caught fire. Because, no, I hadn’t. Thankfully, I was saved from responding by my stepmother, who raised her voice to gather everyone’s attention. Apparently the birthday girls had pulled into the parking lot. This many people couldn’t exactly hide, so we all became very still and silent. Then Candace and Crystal appeared—identical twin Barbies alongside their handsome Ken husbands—and everyone let out a resounding, “Surprise!”

  I had to give Jeanine credit. Her daughters looked truly taken aback.

  Candace set her hand against her chest. Crystal’s mouth fell wide open. And then they both started laughing and playfully reprimanding their spouses for keeping such a secret. Jeanine got to them first, enfolding them both in a great big hug, dabbing tears from her eyes when she let go. “My babies are thirty. I can’t believe my babies are thirty.”

  I searched for a way to get to them. The sooner I could extend my birthday wishes, the quicker I could get home to my cat.

  I stepped inside my quiet, two-bedroom cottage, leaned against the door, and let out a long stream of breath. Exhaustion had etched itself into the base of my neck in the form of a throbbing headache. I’d gotten roped into staying longer than planned. Two hours of small talk with people I barely knew had taken a toll. As had the stilted conversation I’d had with William and Bridget. Judging by the odd looks my brother kept giving me, he suspected something was off.

  Baxter jumped down from his favorite spot in the bay window and rubbed up against my leg. I gave him a pet. “Did you miss me, Bax?”

  He weaved figure eights around my ankles, arching his back and curling his tail.

  “I missed you too.” I set my purse on the small table in the entryway and slipped out of the ballet flats I’d changed into after work.

  Baxter followed me into the kitchen, where I popped a couple of extra-strength Tylenol and turned on the burner beneath the teakettle. I scooped up Baxter and brought him with me to the kitchen nook, where I often left my laptop. I petted a purring Baxter in my lap and waited for the computer to boot up and the teakettle to whistle.

  The kettle whistled first. I poured myself some chamomile tea, then opened up my inbox, hoping to find an email from Rachel.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t. But there was something from Nate Gallagher.

  From: gallagher24@gmail.com

  To: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  Date: Tue, Sep 15, 2015 5:42 p.m.

  Subject: Re: so very sorry for the mix-up

  Dear Amelia,

  Your mea culpa is not necessary. You’re not bothering me at all. Which I wouldn’t say if it weren’t true. You don’t know me, but if you did, you’d know I don’t say false things to make people feel better.

  You’re actually doing me a service. I’ve been searching for ways to procrastinate, and this is the perfect excuse. People say I’m good with advice. So maybe it’s not an accident at all that the e-mail meant for your Fiji-traveling friend, Rachel, ended up in my inbox instead.

  Can I help?

  Best,

  Nate

  PS: I actually own a flip phone. My friends all like to poke their fun, but I think they’re just jealous that I haven’t succumbed to technology’s allure.

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

  —C. S. Lewis

  I sat back from the computer while my tea breathed ribbons of steam into the air.

  “Can I help?”

  First I dented his bumper and he refused to let me pay for it, then he had the courtesy to call me at my flower shop after my embarrassing mess-up, and now he asked if he could help? I rewound my memory to Saturday, trying to recall as much about this Nate Gallagher as possible.

  A nice head of thick, dark hair. The kind that men with receding hairlines most likely envied. An athletic build. Not football athletic, but something like tennis or track. Above average height. He’d worn his wedding attire well. My age, perhaps, and good-looking, only I couldn’t remember to what degree. I’d been so consumed with getting away quickly before Candace or Crystal could see me that I hadn’t paid much attention to the man I hit.

  I dipped my chamomile tea bag up and down in the hot water, then did the only thing any logical girl e-mailing with a nice, handsome man would do. I googled him. I typed “Nate Gallagher” into the search engine and took a sip of tea. Lots of things came up. So many I wasn’t sure what to click first. There were multiple Nate Gallaghers in the United States. How could I know any of these pertained to the Nate I rear-ended?

  I clicked on Google Images. Pictures loaded onto my screen, several of which were familiar—a man with olive skin, dark brown hair, light brown eyes, straight teeth, youngish, and very, very cute. The kind of cute girls not only noticed but couldn’t help commenting on. And he was e-mailing me, asking if he could help. I clicked on one of his pictures, which led me to a travel article written in 2009 on lesser-known towns in Ireland. I skimmed it enough to know it was well written (witty and charming), and sure enough, at the end where it talked about the author was the familiar picture, along with a bio. Nate Gallagher was a travel writer. Or at least he had been in 2009. Google showed me several other articles, all equally well written, all dated before 2011.

  Facebook rendered no results. There were plenty of Nate Gallaghers, but none who were
cute men living in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I did find a profile on Twitter. After scrolling through almost two years’ worth of tweets (he posted once, maybe twice a month) that ranged from funny to serious to incredibly random, I started to feel very stalkerish and clicked out of the site. When all was said and done, here was what I learned about Nate Gallagher:

  He was cute.

  He was interesting.

  He was a fan of the Philadelphia Phillies.

  We shared the same faith.

  I wondered if he’d come to the wedding as a friend of the bride or the groom. If the groom, he must have been a recent friend, since surely I would have remembered if someone like him had been friends with Matt in college. I sat back in my chair. I did need advice and I couldn’t really count on Rachel, seeing as she was now living in some remote village halfway around the world. And Nate had offered.

  I clicked the Compose button, stared for a long while at the blinking cursor, took another sip of my tea, and started typing.

  From: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  To: gallagher24@gmail.com

  Date: Tue, Sep 15, 2015 10:36 p.m.

  Subject: An Affair to Remember

  Dear Nate,

  I don’t know. Perhaps you can help me. It’s a pretty complicated situation. Or maybe it’s not and I’m only making it complicated. One thing is for sure: it is urgent. And since I have no idea when Rachel will get the message I sent to her in Fiji, I think I’ll take you up on your offer.

  When I sent you that frantic e-mail, I had just finished delivering some flower arrangements to the public library in Apple Creek, which is a town not so far from my flower shop. Actually, let me back up a little. Earlier in the day, my brother stopped by to let me know he was going to propose to his girlfriend. It caught me off guard, mostly because they’ve only been dating since the end of May.

  Anyway, as I was walking back to my car after dropping off the flower arrangements to the librarian, I saw my brother’s girlfriend with a man who definitely wasn’t my brother. Let’s just say they looked . . . awfully cozy. I was shocked. Absolutely shocked. And so I sent Rachel, or actually you, that frantic e-mail.