by Kenzie Reed
And if Aceto’s not really my uncle…it’s still giving every single person here conniption fits, which makes it beyond worthwhile. I’d walk that damn aisle ten times and marry every Witlocke in the room, as long as Aceto was in my purse.
Of course, we had to do an emergency last-minute run to the county clerk’s office to “correct” the name on our marriage license application. Donovan insisted on paying the fee, even though I tried to pay half. What a gentleman.
He’s totally plotting my demise.
Well, he should know I’m a very light sleeper, and not only that, my family’s Italian. We know people.
I mean, I think we do. I’ve never actually seen any evidence of this, but Uncle Vito always talks like we do.
In what feels like no time at all, Donovan and I are standing in front of the officiant, a white-haired woman in a black skirt-suit and pumps. She and her husband are pastors. Her name is Miranda Barnes, she’s got a reputation as being a prissy old schoolmarm, and she’s clearly appalled by today’s antics. Her pinched brows reveal that it has not escaped her notice that the bride is carrying an enormous red purse, and the purse is making a low, angry growling sound.
I lean in. “Sorry about the cat,” I say. “You’ve probably seen weirder things over the years, right?”
She does a disapproving little throat-clear and manages a pained smile that looks like she’s suppressing gas. “Not really.”
Donovan stifles a laugh and nudges me gently with his elbow. “You might want to quit while you’re ahead.”
“If only.” I twist around and cast a longing look at the door.
The Ribaldis occupy the left side of the room. My mother, my uncle Vito, Vito’s wife Chiara, their son Rocco, Rocco’s wife Katherine, and their two kids, Sara and Cesare, who are in their early twenties, all huddle together silently.
The only one missing is Aunt Fernanda. And it’s a good thing she’s not here. She’d never have gone along with this. The problem is, she wouldn’t have been able to come up with any other solution either – because there is none. Our family desperately needs this money, or their dairy farm and her vineyard are going under.
The only reason we can keep this a secret is because her rehab facility is an hour from here, and she’s so old school that she doesn’t do any social media whatsoever. She doesn’t have a cell phone, and she’s vehement that she’ll never have “a Twitbookface account”. If I’m really, really lucky she might not find out what I’ve done until the end of summer, when she’s coming home and the contract’s already been signed.
Sara catches my eye, holds up her hand, and does a little wave with an apologetic wince. She’s a Botticelli angel with the glorious explosion of Ribaldi curls, the same kind of hair that I used to hate and flat-iron into fried submission, but which I’ve finally come to appreciate. She’s twenty-two, and when my mother and uncles came up with this stupid scheme, she volunteered to be the one. And she had tears in her eyes. It would have meant she’d have to break up with her very nice boyfriend, but to save the dairy farm, she’d have done it.
My mother told me about it, and of course I jumped in and said no way. I mean, what the heck, I’ve already had what turned out to be a fake engagement. Why not a fake marriage?
I knew that my mother was being manipulative when she threw Sara’s willing sacrifice in my face. I’m not naive. I stopped believing in fairytales, Santa Claus, and my unemployed mother’s lengthy “business trips” long ago. But the fact remained that the available single Ribaldi girls were myself or Sara – so I insisted that it be me.
My cousin Rocco has the grim look of a man facing a firing squad. He’s a proud man, and he hates that it’s come to this. My mother was the real driving force behind it. She was already in town, licking her wounds and recovering from her latest marriage disaster. When this property deal popped up, she suggested the fake marriage as a way to seal the deal.
Not surprising. She collects a fee to manage my portion of the family trust fund until I’m thirty-five, and the trust fund is so dry, it’s coughing up dust. When the sale goes through, she starts getting that fee again. It’s not huge, but it’s a small, steady income until she lands the next man. And then the next one. And the next one after that.
“Sorry,” Rocco mouths at me.
“I know,” I mouth back.
If there were any other way to get the money, he would have done it, but they’re up to their nose-hairs in debt and sinking fast.
I’m doing it for them, I remind myself. For the land. For the farm. For the cows and goats and ducks and geese. For Aunt Fernanda’s vineyard.
My gaze wanders to the right side of the room, where the Witlockes are gathered. Donovan’s parents, Montgomery and Diana, his older sisters, Jamie and Toni, his Uncle Phillip and Aunt April, and their sons, Brandon, Cory, and Jonathon. Jonathon’s hanging his head in shame, all sunken in on himself and miserable, his sunny good humor vanished. I feel bad about that. Yes, he’s a doofus, but he’s a good-natured, harmless doofus.
It’s a pathetically small crowd. The overhead fans make a faint whooshing noise, and in my head it sounds like lies, lies, lies.
The plastic wreath of my veil itches on my head. My simple A-Line princess dress is tight in the bust and too loose everywhere else. Low-heeled white pumps hurt my feet.
This is my wedding day.
And I’m marrying Donovan, the first man I ever really felt anything for, the man I’ve spent more than a decade forcing out of my thoughts and my heart, again and again. I’ve basically made a full-time job of forgetting Donovan. That’s going to be a little challenging now that we’ll be roomies for the next four months.
I turn back to face Donovan, and I’m glad that I have an ugly-ass veil to hide the tears burning my eyes.
Despite everything, despite my spectacularly awful failed engagement to Simon, despite my well-earned cynicism when it comes to weddings, I still had hopes of a real marriage one day. A fantasy marriage, one I constructed in my head, one that looked nothing like my mother’s many unions.
And, forgive me, Aunt Fernanda, but my fantasy marriage looked nothing like her and Uncle Nuccio’s. They loved each other fiercely and fought all the time, at the top of their lungs. Dishes were thrown. Curses were screamed. I huddled in my closet on many an occasion as a little girl, terrified of the passion behind their battles. They never hit each other, and it was all love and kisses the next day, but it was a lot.
When I dared to dream of a marriage, I dreamed of a perfect one, of course, where we agreed on everything and instinctively knew what our partner needed and never fought or left each other.
But if I’m being honest with myself, I’ll never have that. It’s just not in my bloodline. My father was the black sheep of the Ribaldi family, many years younger than his siblings, Nuccio and Vito, wild and irresponsible. He only married my mother, pretty dairy farm employee Linda Patterson, under duress after she showed him the results of the pregnancy test. Then he did a vanishing act worthy of any magician, except he never did come back. And my mother…well, her lifestyle speaks for itself. Her daddy ran out on her when she was a toddler, just like mine did to me, and she spends her life looking for validation in all the wrong places. Generation after generation…the Patterson women just can’t keep a man.
The pastor begins to speak, and a wave of dizziness rolls over me. Donovan somehow senses it, and puts his hands on my waist and holds me upright. It should feel like a vise clamping down on me, like chains, but it doesn’t. His hands are big and strong and feel as if they’re right where they should be.
That should be a signal for me to run and never look back. It’s the same kind of instinct that led my mother to marry six different times.
Deep inside my purse, Aceto’s tired of protesting and he’s fallen asleep. I know because he’s snoring. Lucky bastard.
The pastor pauses, and looks at me, and I realize I’ve completely zoned out on what she’s saying. Is it time for me to speak
now?
I stifle a hysterical giggle. “I do,” I blurt out.
She resumes. Okay, good, I didn’t say the wrong thing or miss my cue.
I can’t look Donovan in the eye.
“I do,” he says.
This can’t be happening.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Donovan leans in, lifts my veil, and kisses me. His lips are meltingly soft, and my lips part to accept his tongue, probing my mouth, strong and sure and in command. He puts his hand behind my head and deepens the kiss. I hear a low, trembling moan, and I realize that it came from me, and then I see the fierce flare of satisfaction in his eyes. And I know exactly what the bastard’s thinking.
Got you again, Ribaldi.
Aceto, who is exquisitely sensitive to my moods, wakes up and lets out a furious growl. I pretend to stumble, and dig my heel into Donovan’s instep. He catches me, stifling his snarl of pain and anger.
“Clumsy me.” I smile up at him. He whispers something back so low that I can barely hear it, but it sounds like, “Sleep with one eye open.”
“And a knife under my pillow,” I whisper back.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You what now?”
I spin away from him and throw my bouquet. Sara catches it, with squeals of joy and excitement that actually make me crack a genuine smile.
Carrie makes her way towards us, clutching her camera so hard her knuckles are white.
“Well, this is certainly the most unusual wedding I’ve been to in a long time.” Her voice rings off the rafters, suspicion threaded through it as she glowers at us.
“Sure is.” Donovan trails his fingers lightly down my arm, and a flare of heat burns through me, followed by anger. I should be stronger than this.
“That’s nothing on our living arrangements,” I say. “We’re moving into a barn!”
The entire room falls silent.
“It’s the renovated barn on my aunt’s property,” I say. “It’s been made into the cutest little farmhouse.” Well, it’s being made into a farmhouse. It’s halfway there. It’s livable, if you don’t need things like electricity or internet or a stove.
After my aunt’s stroke, it was obvious she couldn’t live in her old house anymore, with all the steep stairs and the bedrooms all on the second floor. We’ve hired a vineyard manager, and we let him and his family move into her house. They’ll live there for free, as part of their salary. The renovated barn is meant for my aunt when she’s able to come home again.
Carrie catches Donovan’s look of shock. “Wow! Amazing! I’ll have to swing by for a visit!” Spite and fury are the fuel for her nuclear reactor.
My mother scowls at me, and I return her scowl with a puzzled smile, as if to say, “What’s wrong?”
Sara is laughing, hand clapped over her mouth. She flashes me a thumbs up.
We’d already worked this out, and this is a major change of plan. The families had agreed that Jonathon and I would live in a guesthouse on the Witlockes’ property. Separate bedrooms, of course. It’s located on the far western edge of their property, and I would have had to walk down their driveway and directly past their butt-ugly house every day to get to my aunt’s vineyard and the winery. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Donovan’s mother, Diana, flashes me a furious look. April Witlocke narrows her eyes and shoots hatred-rays in my direction. Hey, excuse me, maybe she should have taught her spoiled surfer-dude son to keep it in his board shorts for a hot minute.
Donovan doesn’t miss a beat.
“And by the way, let me tell you about our first fun couple project.” He grabs my hand and squeezes it. “We’re going to be doing the couples’ running relay for the Fall-fest! Training starts tomorrow.”
I suck in a startled breath. Oh no he didn’t. The Fall-fest is huge in Greenvale; all the vineyards and farms showcase their wares, and people come from all over the country. And the relay races are a big part of it; the whole town turns out to watch.
Twisting around so nobody else can see my face, I glare at him with my stabbiest expression, and he smiles back. Donovan knows I hate running. He was a track star back in high school, before he switched to lacrosse, and I used to mock him for it. It just makes no sense to me. I’m not anti-exercise; I’m very into physical fitness, I’ve just never been into gyms. I got plenty of exercise in Seattle; I walked a mile to work every day and a mile back home, I walked up four flights of stairs to get to my office, and I bicycled all over the place on weekends.
But a couples’ relay? What am I even supposed to be running from? Zombies? Jerk.
“Really?” Carrie’s skeptical tone scrapes along my nerves.
I spin around to face her. “Sure are!” I smile so hard my face hurts.
Whatever. Okay, I’ll have to jog. So far, I got to choose where we live, and he’s still limping from that shin-kick. That’s two to one. I look up at him and mouth, “Winning.”
He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Keep it up and I’ll tell Carrie you’re signing up for the Rivervale Ladies’ League. I’m sure my mother and aunt will be glad to sponsor you.”
I can’t hide my shudder of horror. I firmly press my lips together. Not another word out of my mouth.
“Cat got your tongue?” he whispers.
Aceto hisses, right on cue. I say nothing. I am not joining that 1950s-leftover, Stepford Wives, dining-on-passive-aggressive-friendly-insults Ladies’ League. Not, not, not.
“Admit it, Sienna. Say I’ve won this round.”
I stand on tiptoe and brush my lips against his neck, and he groans aloud. I gently nibble on his ear. He twists away from his family so nobody can see the erection that just sprang up, straining against the cloth of his slacks.
“Let the games begin,” I whisper into his ear.
Chapter Five
DONOVAN
In keeping with the half-assed, rushed nature of the wedding, the reception is being held on site here at the Wine Knot chapel, in their smaller banquet room. Décor is sparse. A table of hors d’oeuvres has been set out, and a square two-tier wedding cake sits on a white-cloth-draped table.
I’m not sure if I should be alarmed at the skill and fiendish glee with which my bride jams the knife into the cake. Well, she’s a Ribaldi, so…yeah, I should. My hand drifts down and protectively covers my groin before I catch myself and shove my hands in my pockets.
Sienna’s second cousins, Cesare and Sara, hoover down appetizers at one end of the buffet table, and my cousins cluster around the other end. Our families are gathered in small, awkward clots of fury. We’re really just in here killing time in case Carrie’s in the parking lot, because rushing out of here too quickly would be unseemly.
My bride is standing with her mother across the room, and from the look on her face, she’s getting an earful. Good, because so am I.
“I can’t believe she pulled that nonsense,” my mother says angrily. “Bad enough that you have to marry that woman when Jonathon was the one who pulled the short straw, but you have to live in a barn all summer? April and I spent a lot of time cleaning and decorating the house for them.”
Decorating? The guest house has always been decorated. Why would they need to…
I skewer her with an accusing gaze. “Decorating with Witlocke Vineyard paraphernalia and family portraits on every available wall?”
She smirks a little. “Nothing wrong with showing some family pride, is there?”
“And let me guess, you’ve also got framed newspaper articles from every Witlocke win over the last century? Every first place prize at the fair, every quilting contest, every garden club arrangement? And you left out every article with a Ribaldi win?”
She sniffs. “There weren’t that many.”
That’s not true. The Ribaldis are, I have to admit, better-liked in town than we are, because they’re loudly outgoing, friendly, and some might say – “some” being my family – obnoxiously familiar with everyon
e. The Witlockes are known for being proper, reserved, and maybe a little judgey. The wins stand at more like fifty-fifty.
Yeah, the guest house would never have worked out. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea for me to stay on the Ribaldi property.” I can’t believe I’m even saying that.
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “I’m on the side of ending this stupid feud once and for all. For ninety years, this family has wasted time and money on this ridiculousness, and spent what feels like half their working lives in criminal court and civil court and county jail. I’ve lost count of how much I’ve personally spent dealing with this nonsense, and I’m done with it. So we won’t be sabotaging this deal.”
My mother smirks. “Like Sienna could have done anything about it once she moved in.”
I shift weight off my aching shin and wonder what’s awaiting me when we move into the farmhouse. “Oh, I wouldn’t underestimate her. Ever.”
“Like Sienna could have done anything about what?” my father demands.
My mother’s face melts into a scowl. “Nothing.”
“You’re not trying to sabotage this deal, are you?” He glowers at her. “We agreed that the feud is over and we’re putting it all behind us. Do I need to remind you how much is riding on this?” His hair has gotten whiter. In the year since I’ve seen him in person, he looks like he’s aged ten years. How bad have things gotten?
“Just getting the last word in.” My mother primps her hair and smirks again.
My father turns his attention to me. “Nice of you to step up to the plate,” he says. He doesn’t say the words “for once”, but I can hear them echoing through the air, unspoken.
“The offer to help you automate your systems and improve your efficiency has always been there.” I can’t help myself. My voice has gone defensive and sharp.
And if he had taken me up on my offer years ago, they would have been able to operate in the black and wouldn’t have needed to take these desperate measures to raise funds.
My father’s brows draw together in a scowl. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go talk to Jamie about some vineyard business.” And there it is. Jamie and Toni stayed in Greenvale and took their places in the family business. I did not.