A Wedding in Truhart

by Cynthia Tennent

  Nick drew up alongside the old barn and stopped the snowmobile. He turned his head. “Here we are.”

  I placed my hand on my heart and looked around.

  Nestor and several other men stood by an industrial-size grill between the barn and the house. Smoke billowed into the nearby forest and a savory smell of something wonderful lingered in the air. A bonfire raged to our left and I could see Travis Hartwick passing beer around, looking for all the world like he belonged.

  Nick jumped off the snowmobile and lifted me.

  “I can walk,” I protested.

  He shook his head. “Not in those shoes.” He carried me through the barn’s double doors. When he finally put me down, he waited while my eyes drank in the scene before me.

  Russell Conrad’s workshop had never looked so magical. The barn was illuminated with hundreds of tiny white lights strung from the beams above our heads. They reminded me of stars in the sky. Glowing lanterns were suspended from the rafters and cast a warm haze over the room. The light flickered across the wood planks on the walls, making the old barn feel alive. Dozens of our tables from the inn were draped with white tablecloths and small panels of burlap. They were adorned with our beautiful flower arrangements of deep pink and white roses, surrounded by shimmering candles.

  “Are those—”

  “Uh-huh, Cozy Candles from Marva. She was so excited. But I think I’m signed up to host a candle party, now,” Nick said.

  Good for her. It was breathtaking.

  The memory of the beautiful Lakeland Hills Country Club in Atlanta couldn’t even compare. There was something so unique about the rustic room and the twinkling lights, so incredibly appropriate, that all I could do was shake my head and look up at Nick in wonder.

  “Do you like it?” he said with hope in his eyes.

  I threw my arms around him. “Oh, Nick, it’s incredible.”

  He exhaled and pulled me off my feet. “Well, don’t look too close. I am sure there are still birds nesting in the rafters.”

  When he put me down I couldn’t help taking another look. “How did you do this?”

  “We had a lot of help. Some of the men from the Elks Lodge came by and cleaned up the dust and grime. George Bloodworth lent us a forklift to string the lights. Jerry Landry rallied a few trucks to cart the tables and chairs here. I guess you could say it was a town effort.”

  George Bloodworth and Jerry Landry stood on the opposite end of the barn talking with Scarlett Francis and I tried to make sense of what Nick had just said. I thought he hated those men for what they’d put his dad through.

  Nick saw my dismay. “Maybe they figured they owed me, I don’t know.”

  I thought of all the things he had overcome to make this happen. He had been so angry at George Bloodworth and Jerry Landry for how they treated his father. And now, not only had they worked together but they had done it here, in the one place that brought back so many bittersweet memories for Nick.

  “Thank you.” I lifted my hand and cupped his cheek. He leaned into it, closed his eyes, and kissed my palm.

  “I did it for you, Annie,” he said, lifting his lids.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “I know.”

  Then I pulled my hand away and slapped him on the shoulder. “You love me too!”

  “I know,” he said meaningfully, with hooded eyes.

  This was going to be a long night if he kept looking at me like that. The sun had set, after all.

  In a corner of the room I could hear the first notes of a song. A keyboard, drum set, and guitars were set up in front of a makeshift dance floor. Somehow Ian’s bandmates had made it through the snow-covered roads all the way from Detroit.

  “It’s New Year’s Eve, everyone,” Ian shouted into the microphone. “This first song goes out to my little sister, Mrs. Henry Lowell. Let’s party!” He launched into an updated version of Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana.” He changed some of the words and I was pretty sure I heard a reference to a roof caving in.

  I turned around to see Charlotte glowering, her hands on her hips. I pulled out my camera and handed my bag to Nick. This was the kind of picture I wanted. Charlotte saw me and stuck out her tongue just as my shutter clicked.

  “You’re the one who wanted to be treated like me,” I said.

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Leave the photography to a professional like me, s’il vous plaît,” Alain said loudly as he stomped toward me, shaking a finger.

  Charlotte put her arm around my shoulders and turned to him. “Oh, Annie knows what she is doing, Alan. Believe me. You know she won the Fiske photography scholarship to NYU a few years back.”

  “Well, I didn’t stay at—” I started.

  “You won the—Wait a moment—you?” Alain had suddenly lost his French accent. “I was passed over for that . . . How could that be?” His face turned purple under the lantern light as he stumbled over the words.

  Charlotte just nodded and smiled sweetly. Her grip on my shoulder told me she would allow no explanations from me. So I laughed and pointed my camera toward Alain.

  “Smile.”

  As the evening unfolded it became clear that Charlotte’s wedding was the event of the decade, whether you were from Truhart or Atlanta. Nestor cooked a meal that made even Scarlett Francis rave. Aunt Addie basked in the attention from the younger generation, who demanded more stories about the good ol’ days. The wedding cake had been replaced with a cupcake tower, thanks to dozens of donations from the ladies in town. And Ian enjoyed the attention of the video cameras and the ladies in the crowd. At one point, he pulled the microphone stand sideways and crooned for a group of women that included Brittany, of all people. She bounced up and down and gazed at Ian with the adoring eyes of a teenybopper fan. Of course he pretended not to notice her, but I saw the way he checked her out when she wasn’t looking.

  “If he even thinks about dating her, I’ll disown him,” I muttered.

  Nick had been nuzzling my neck telling me all the ways he loved me as we pretended to dance on the crowded floor. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because she reminds me of a spoiled debutante.”

  “Well, that’s kind of strange,” he said, “since she thinks you’re great.”

  I turned my head into Nick’s shoulder so he couldn’t see me redden. Well, maybe it was time I knocked that chip off my shoulder.

  Nearby someone was talking over the music about the designer dress Charlotte hadn’t worn. “I hear she is going to auction it off on eBay and donate the money to the inn. After she puts the story on The Morning Show it should fetch double what she paid for it.”

  Nick drew back and raised his eyebrows. That would help out a lot. Mom had promised to wait a few more weeks to make a decision about the inn, so maybe we had a reprieve from a sale. I crossed my fingers in front of me and Nick kissed them and laughed.

  “So, I have been thinking,” he said slowly as Ian sang a sappy song. “That small division in my firm that renovates old buildings needs a lead architect. I really liked what they did with that old office building in Detroit and I’m thinking of putting my name in for the job. It’s in Ann Arbor.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Have you ever thought of taking some more photography classes? Maybe finish that degree? Ann Arbor is the perfect place for that.”

  “Funny, I was thinking about that just today.” Maybe it was time for me to give photography a try again.

  Nick kissed me.

  “Get a room, you two!” I turned to see Charlotte cupping her hands over her mouth.

  “Oh my God, I think Ian and I have created a monster,” I said in between kisses.

  When the song finished, the lights flickered.

  “It’s almost midnight,” someone yelled.

  Nick left me to help Ian and Grady usher everyone out. I grabbed my camera and stood on a chair near the doors, taking pictures of the crowd as they wandered outside. Several men, including
George Bloodworth and Travis Hartwick, handed out large sky lanterns and explained what to do with them. I don’t know who arranged it, but I was glad they did. When midnight hit it was going to be one beautiful sea of flying lanterns.

  Charlotte and Henry stood together in the center of the crowd holding a large white lantern. Grady handed my mother a red lantern and said something that made her smile. Aunt Addie, Marva, Corinne, and Mary stood together, laughing at their clumsy attempts to light their paper wicks. Ian intervened and held up a lighter for them, earning a peck on the cheek from Aunt Addie.

  I found myself captivated by the scene. Everywhere I looked people held lanterns. Their faces were illuminated by the soft light and they turned to each other, laughing and waiting for the signal.

  Kevin and Bebe started counting down to midnight and the crowd joined in.

  I saw Ian elbow his way toward Charlotte and Henry, clearing a path for Mom and Aunt Addie to follow. They stood together and lifted their lanterns high.

  Wait, a part of me screamed. In a few seconds it would be a new year. Everything was changing. Where would we be next year? Would we still be in Truhart? Images of childhood flashed in my mind.

  Quick. I lifted my camera and took a picture.

  “Nine, eight, seven,” the crowd was chanting.

  “Annie,” called Nick over the noise. He stood by the doorway to the barn, holding a lantern that lit up his face. He held out his free hand.

  I lowered my camera and joined him.

  Truhart Twister

  with special thanks to my friend Deborah Andris Caputo

  Ingredients

  • 2 oz. Valentine White Blossom vodka

  • 1 oz. McClary Bros. Michigan Cherry drinking vinegar

  • ½ oz. freshly squeezed lemon juice

  • ½ oz. simple syrup (equal parts sugar and water boiled down)

  • 2 oz. dry sparkling wine or dry Prosecco (or club soda, if you must . . . )

  • 3 Bada Bing Cherries (you will never have any other kind again!)

  Preparation

  Combine the first four ingredients with ice in a cocktail shaker (do not add the sparkling wine or club soda yet). Shake. Strain into a cocktail glass. Top off with the sparkling wine or club soda. Skewer the three cherries and place in the glass. Enjoy with friends!

  Cynthia Tennent was the original book thief, stealing romance novels from underneath her mother’s bed when she was just twelve. As an adult, she grew serious and studied international relations, education, and other weighty matters while living all over the world. In search of happy endings, she rediscovered love stories and wrote her own when her daughters were napping. She lives in Michigan with her husband, three daughters, and her collie dog, Jack. This is her first novel.

  You can visit her at www.cynthiatennent.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL SHINE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2015 by Cynthia Tennent Sohn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Lyrical Shine and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: September 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-6165-0832-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-833-3

  ISBN-10: 1-61650-833-7