How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  To make matters worse, my brother came back to the store this evening and announced that she said yes. Supposedly the two of them were to have dinner last night, but she had to cancel (to have dinner with another man!), so he went to her school (she’s a teacher) yesterday afternoon and proposed. I had no idea what to say. Or do. There’s not a single person on this planet I love more than my brother. He’s head over heels for this girl. This will absolutely crush him. But I have to do something. I can’t pretend I didn’t see what I saw.

  So here I am, sitting in my kitchen with my cat in my lap and lukewarm tea by my elbow, feeling terribly conflicted and at a loss. What would you do if this were your brother?

  With gratitude,

  Amelia

  PS: What has you procrastinating?

  I brought my hands away from the keyboard. I had saved the subject line for last. At first I titled it She Done Him Wrong, one of Cary Grant’s earlier, lesser-known movies with Mae West, but then I got paranoid that Nate would have no idea what I was talking about and would simply think I had bad grammar. Not a good thing for a guy who had a sticker on his back window about the Oxford comma. I ended up deleting that subject line and changing it to one of Grant’s better-known films, even if it was an affair I’d rather forget.

  I reread the message a few times, cracking my knuckles as I did. It was an unattractive habit, I knew, but some occasions simply called for knuckle cracking. Was I really going to send this? It was pretty personal information to send to a person I didn’t know. But maybe that was a good thing. Nate didn’t know me or my brother or his fiancée. He lived in the Upper Peninsula. There wasn’t really any harm in him knowing, was there?

  The cursor hovered over the Send button. The sight of it made my hands clammy. Before I could chicken out, I squeezed my eyes tight and clicked.

  From: gallagher24@gmail.com

  To: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  Date: Wed, Sep 16, 2015 12:31 a.m.

  Subject: Re: An Affair to Remember

  Dear Amelia,

  You weren’t exaggerating. It is complicated. I’m sorry you’re faced with such a horrible dilemma.

  Here is my honest advice. If I were you, I would talk to my brother’s fiancée. Tell her what you saw and give her a chance to explain. Maybe it’s not what you think?

  I want to thank you for trusting me enough with your problem, and for giving me an excuse to procrastinate. At the moment, I’m currently ghostwriting a book for a celebrity. My contract forbids that I say who, but I will give you two hints. He’s rather famous and he’s not the easiest fellow to work with, which I think might surprise many of his fans.

  And hey, would you mind doing me a favor? If you follow my advice, please let me know how it goes. And if you don’t follow my advice, let me know that too. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I have to know how things end. Loose strings drive me crazy.

  Best,

  Nate

  PS: Your subject line made me smile.

  “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: Wed, Sep 16, 2015 6:07 a.m.

  Subject: Re: An Affair to Remember

  I’m glad it made you smile. And wow, a ghostwriter. I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting one of those before. I’m grateful for the advice. You’re right. I should talk to Bridget. (That’s her name, by the way. I don’t think I told you in the previous e-mail.) Maybe I didn’t see things correctly. I read once that eyewitness accounts aren’t nearly as reliable as we think they should be. I promise to keep you updated on the situation. Wish me luck!

  —Amelia

  I stepped inside the front office of Mayfair’s one and only school. It served grades K–12 all in the same building, with the second story reserved for the high school. I attended in kindergarten and halfway through first grade before my dad moved me and one-year-old William to our new home and family in Green Bay.

  Mrs. Berdahl, a short-haired, big-hipped woman who ran the front office when I was there in kindergarten, greeted me with a big smile. “Amelia, what brings you here so bright and early?”

  “I was wondering if I could have a quick word with Bridget?” She taught French. This was her first year. If I was going to confront her, as Nate advised, I had to do it as soon as possible. Before I could talk myself out of it.

  “Let me get you a visitor badge, and you can go on up to her room.” Mrs. Berdahl opened her top drawer and pulled out a lanyard with a badge attached that said Visitor in a bold black font. “You know, everyone was talking about William’s proposal yesterday. It was one of the most romantic things I’d ever seen, him walking down to her room with all those roses. Bridget hasn’t stopped smiling since.”

  I forced my lips to curve up, wishing it were genuine. Hoping Bridget had a good, solid explanation for what I’d seen. I wanted to be happy for them.

  Mrs. Berdahl handed me the badge. “Say, do you have any yellow roses in stock? It’s my aunt’s birthday tomorrow. She adores yellow roses.”

  “I can make sure to have some if you want to swing by and pick up a bouquet.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. I’ll be in after work tomorrow.”

  “I’ll make sure to save some yellow roses for you, then.” I put on the lanyard, said good-bye, and headed toward the stairwell. It was eight o’clock. Classes didn’t start for another thirty minutes. I was technically supposed to be at the shop by now. I nodded hello to a few teachers who spotted me walking past their classrooms. Once outside Bridget’s, I wiped my sweaty palms on the thighs of my jeans and took a deep breath, hoping the extra oxygen might give me some courage. When I knocked on the open door, Bridget looked up from some papers on her desk, her eyes going wide at the sight of me.

  She stood abruptly. “Amelia? What are you doing here? Did something happen to Will?”

  “Oh no. Sorry. William’s fine.” At least, physically. The state of his heart remained to be seen.

  She pressed her palm against her chest, as if to calm her racing heart.

  My hands took to fidgeting. “Do you have a second to talk?”

  “Sure, I have a few minutes.” Bridget straightened the papers on her desk and waved me inside. “Is everything okay? It seemed like you had something on your mind last night at the party. I’m sure this must be a little weird for you—your younger brother being engaged—especially when the two of you are so close.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .” I stepped farther inside the room. “I saw you.”

  “You saw me what?”

  “When I was delivering flowers on Monday evening to the public library in Apple Creek.” I waited for my words to click. For Bridget to realize what this meant. She only looked confused. “I saw you and that . . . guy? Walking arm in arm into the restaurant next to the library.”

  Her face went completely pale. Her eyelids fluttered and she severed eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It was the same night you canceled plans with William. The same day you said yes to his proposal.”

  “Amelia.” She looked straight into my eyes, her face as white as a ghost. “I wasn’t in Apple Creek on Monday night.”

  And there I stood, with no clue what to say. This, I hadn’t expected. Sure, eyewitness accounts weren’t the most reliable things, but there was no mistaking that the woman I’d seen on Monday night in Apple Creek had most definitely been Bridget.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course the great-grandparents should have flowers.” Alyssa Green looked at me across the counter with her big doe eyes as I wiped the surface clean with a rag. “And then I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about daffodils. I can’t believe I left them out of the centerpiece arrangements. They symbolize new beginnings, which is perfect for a wedding.”

  They also happened to be spring flowers.
And this already happened to be the biggest, most stressful wedding I’d ever done. Ten, yes, ten bridesmaids, with hydrangea bouquets. A gorgeous flower, to be sure. But they wilted so easily, they gave me a heart attack. All of which would be manageable if Alyssa wasn’t the most exasperating bride I’d ever worked with. She wasn’t mean, or even a bridezilla. She was simply high maintenance. Like a polite pregnant lady who constantly changed her mind about what she was craving. That was Alyssa, only with her flower arrangements. It made me long for Lily Emerick, Mayfair’s local event planner. Working with Lily on weddings was a cinch. She ordered well in advance and picked up the flowers straight from the shop. Too bad Alyssa hadn’t hired Lily.

  “Alyssa, the wedding is this Saturday. I can get the boutonnieres and the corsages, but I’m not sure about the daffodils. I already made the order.” And the centerpiece arrangements were already under way.

  Alyssa’s eyes welled with tears.

  Maybe if she were a mean bridezilla I could have stuck to my guns. The tears, however, did me in. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure my vendor can bring in a special order.”

  Alyssa melted with relief. “Oh, thank you!”

  I pointed my rag at her. “But no more changing your mind.”

  “I promise I won’t!”

  The door swung open with a jingle and a swoosh. William breezed inside like a thundercloud—all dark and ominous. He nodded hello to Alyssa, then turned to me. “Can I have a word?”

  “Um, sure.”

  Looking between us, Alyssa waved good-bye and slipped outside.

  William watched her go, then rounded on me as soon as the door closed. “Did you go to school today to talk to Bridget?”

  “Yes.”

  “She called me in tears this afternoon, saying you accused her of cheating.”

  “I never accused her of anything. I simply told Bridget what I saw the evening you proposed to her. That’s all.”

  “This is why you’ve been acting so funny, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  William pushed his hands through his hair. It was a stress-induced mannerism inherited from our father. “You’re getting the wrong impression of my fiancée.”

  “Why don’t you give me the right one, then?”

  “She was having dinner with an old family friend on Monday night. They grew up together. The two are practically brother and sister. He surprised her with an unexpected visit and he’s an affectionate guy. It wasn’t anything.”

  The phone rang—a shrill, sharp sound that filled up the silence between us. I let it go to the answering machine.

  “William, if that’s true, then why did Bridget lie about being in Apple Creek on Monday night? She looked me straight in the eyes and said it wasn’t her.” The whole thing reeked of guilt.

  “Because she panicked. You caught her off guard when you showed up the way you did. She went from thinking something bad had happened to me to thinking you wouldn’t believe her. She made a mistake.”

  I stared at William, wishing I could untie this knot of dread in my gut, wishing I could dispel my doubts.

  “I’m not a baby anymore, Ames. I trust Bridget.” He set his hands on the counter. “I need you to trust me.”

  From: gallagher24@gmail.com

  To: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  Date: Thu, Sep 24, 2015 4:12 p.m.

  Subject: The Man Who Knew Too Much

  Dear Amelia,

  In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how much this suspense is killing me. I am dying a slow death here, Amelia. Please put me out of my misery. How did things go with Bridget and your brother?

  If you’ve decided I know too much already and you aren’t comfortable sharing any more, please let me know. I promise I’ll understand. I just need to know whether or not I should continue checking my e-mail with the expectation of finding something from you. Needing closure is one of my faults, I’m afraid. And so, apparently, is nosiness.

  Best,

  Nate

  “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: Thu, Sep 24, 2015 9:15 p.m.

  Subject: Re: The Man Who Knew Too Much

  Dear Nate,

  I’m so sorry for keeping you in such suspense. I promise it wasn’t thoughtlessness on my part. The truth is that I’ve been terribly busy.

  The homecoming dance is this Saturday, so I’ve been up to my eyeballs in corsages and boutonnieres, and I just finished doing flowers for what was quite possibly the biggest, most stressful wedding of my life on the same weekend as our town’s Fall Harvest Festival, which is great fun, but I help out with the decorations. Then there was a funeral yesterday, which is always a last-minute thing. We’ve had all hands on deck here at the Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop, and that’s only two sets, unless you count our delivery guy, who is no good at making arrangements. I’ve pretty much been living at my store, and if I’m being 100% honest, I didn’t really know how to process how I’m feeling about everything. And since I wasn’t sure how to process my feelings, I decided to do the mature thing and repress them altogether by diving into my work. If we’re going to admit to our faults, I guess that’s one of mine.

  Here are your loose ends. Whether they’ve been nicely tied up is still up for debate.

  I followed your advice and confronted Bridget. She denied the entire thing. She looked me straight in the eye and said it wasn’t her. I had the wrong person. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing, except William (that’s my brother’s name) showed up at my flower shop that same day, accusing me of accusing his fiancée of cheating. Turns out, she called William in tears and said that it was her, but she panicked. Apparently I saw her with a family friend who is simply an affectionate guy.

  I could maybe believe that had she told me the truth herself. What I don’t understand is why she would lie to me about it and then change her story to William. It’s fishy, isn’t it? William asked me to stay out of it. He trusts Bridget and he wants me to trust him. Oh, but it’s hard. I admit, I am rather protective of him. He’s six years younger than me, you see, and we’re sort of orphans.

  Our mother died in childbirth. I was a six-year-old little girl with a grieving father and this little baby for a brother. Being a mother to him made me forget how terribly I missed my own. Our dad remarried too soon, and eight years later, he died too. William and I stayed with our stepmother and two stepsisters, who aren’t the warmest of people. Growing up, it felt like it was me and William against the world. We were literally the redheaded stepchildren. (I was wearing a hat when we met, so you might not have noticed my red hair.) And now that same baby brother has gone and proposed to a woman I want to trust but don’t. How is he even old enough to get married?

  Wow, I am throwing a fabulous pity party for myself, aren’t I? As I reread this e-mail, I realize I’ve painted myself in a very tragic light. My life isn’t tragic, really. Yes, I’ve had my losses. But who hasn’t? God has given me a flower shop that I cherish, a younger brother I adore, and this quirky little town that I love. I like my life, Nate. I’m happy with where I’ve landed. I just wish I felt more confident about where William is landing.

  Sorry again for making you wait!

  Amelia

  PS: Bravo on the Mr. Darcy quote. He’s a long-standing literary crush of mine. Your e-mail opening might have made me swoon a little.

  PPS: I haven’t seen The Man Who Knew Too Much. I had to look it up on IMDb. I’ll have to watch it. I’m a big fan of Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day.

  I woke at five in the morning feeling a strange combination of panic and regret. Nate had wanted to know how things turned out regarding his advice. He’d never asked me about my family history or all of my accompanying feelings. Why had I shared so much? And how much of a freak did he think I was for divulging
all that I’d divulged? I wasn’t even sure how it happened. I’d sat down at the computer, it all sort of tumbled out, and now he definitely knew too much—whether he wanted to or not.

  Maybe I needed to keep a journal. Maybe if I kept a journal I would no longer pour out my embarrassing heart to cute men. I pulled my pillow over my face and groaned. Rachel was right. I needed to get out more. Meet someone in real life. Perhaps the reason I cyber-dumped on Nate was because deep down Baxter and my flower shop weren’t enough. Maybe I was lonely, and now I’d gone and scared away the one guy who had charmed me (he quoted Darcy, for heaven’s sake!) since Matt.

  I slipped into my robe and shuffled out into the dark kitchen with toes curling against the chilly air, my regret following me the entire way. Baxter remained sleeping at the foot of my bed. I sat down in front of my laptop and woke it from its slumber with a click. The luminescent screen lit up my kitchen nook. I opened up my inbox, wishing I had the power to take back the e-mail I sent last night. Wishing I could send him something much cooler instead. Like a here’s-what-went-down and leave-it-at-that type of e-mail.

  When my inbox loaded, I found a couple orders for the day. Along with two unread, un-flower-related messages.

  One from my long-lost best friend, Rachel.

  The other from Nate!

  From: gallagher24@gmail.com

  To: amelia@forget-me-not.com

  Date: Fri, Sep 25, 2015 1:05 a.m.

  Subject: Re: The Man Who Knew Too Much

  Dear Amelia,

  Thank you for putting me out of my misery. It was a relief to hear the ending of the story. No, the loose ends weren’t completely tied up, but I think they’re secure enough. If I were you and William were my younger brother, I would respect his wishes. He knows what you saw, so the burden is no longer on your shoulders. He has chosen to trust Bridget, and he’s asked that you trust him. I think it’s a pretty reasonable request. And I think you can honor it without feeling guilty. There is my unsolicited advice for the day. Feel free to take it or leave it.