you be able to handle her,mily? Should I fly out there to help you? If I leave your father a list he can take over the wedding plans, though I’m not sure how well he’ll do if he has to pick out your flowers. His color blindness could be a real problem, especially— krrrrrk krrrrrk. ”
“Mom?”
“ KRRRRRK!”
I killed the connection, then watched forlornly as Jackie helped Nana up the stairs to the beer garden. Oh, God. What if this was Nana’s last trip? What if the handwriting business was symptomatic of a larger problem? What if she didn’t live long enough to see me married?
I can’t go there .
Battling unwanted tears, I punched a number into my phone.
“Miceli.”
“Hi, sweetie, it’s me. Do you have time to cheer me up?”
“Always,” he said in an unhurried tone that wrapped dreamily around me. “Where shall I begin? By telling you how many days are left until our wedding, or by listing the things I love most about you?”
I dried my eyes, feeling better already. “Etienne, how would you feel if the wedding turned out a little different than we’d originally planned?”
“Different how?”
“Different church, different restaurant, different town.”
“As long as the bride stays the same, I won’t complain.”
“So you’d be okay with a bridal reception in a livestock auction barn with crepe paper streamers and plug-in room fresheners?”
Silence. “What happened to the elegant restaurant with the string quartet and candlelight?”
“Here’s the scoop. Have you ever seen the movie Twister ?”
As I filled him in on Windsor City’s recent disaster, I watched Nana and Jackie hobnobbing with several guests who were seated around patio tables, drinking and swatting mosquitoes. August Manning waved a deck of playing cards in front of Reno O’Brien, drumming up a game of gin rummy, no doubt, while the Peabody sisters and Vern Grundy sat side by side, staring at mugs of ale. When Joleen Barnum shouted, “Go,” Vern and the two Peabodys chugged down their brew, then slammed their mugs onto the table. Joleen consulted her stopwatch, announcing in a thundering tone, “And our winner is—by one and eight-tenths seconds—Ap-rrrril Peabody!”
Applause. Table pounding. Foot stomping. A deep-throated chant that sounded like, “Ape-ape-ape.” Gee, these Floridians really knew how to celebrate a victory. Jimbob Barnum turned a cartwheel on the deck, which propelled him onto the surrounding rail like a gymnast on a balance beam. He flipped backward into a handstand, lowered himself onto his chest, then, with the ease of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat, coiled himself into a Chinese ball with his bony tush coming to rest on his head. Quite a trick for a guy who wouldn’t have to jump to dunk a basketball.
“Your mother’s offer of help is very generous, Emily, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather elope? I could arrange everything. We could be married on the summit of the Jungfrau, or on the shores of Lake Como.”
The shores of Lake Como sounded a lot more romantic than Arnie Arnoldussen’s auction barn, and yet…“If we elope, does that mean no family present?”
“It can mean anything you want it to mean.”
An alpine lake or a hog barn? The fragrance of Italianate gardens or the masking power of room deodorizer? The choice seemed pretty clear cut. “It wouldn’t feel like a celebration if Nana, and Tilly, and George, and the rest of my family weren’t there. Is that all right with you?”
“I’d prefer it that way, bella . Imagine what lively entertainment our grandmothers will provide when they meet.”
I regarded Nana as she snapped a picture of Jimbob twisting himself into another contortion. If they meet .
“Tell Jackie I’m enjoying her novel, Emily. Do you know how much of it is autobiographical?”
“Probably all of it.”
“Really?” His voice dipped an octave to a soft, throaty whisper. “Her love scenes are quite…stimulating. I didn’t realize
“Mom?”
“ KRRRRRK!”
I killed the connection, then watched forlornly as Jackie helped Nana up the stairs to the beer garden. Oh, God. What if this was Nana’s last trip? What if the handwriting business was symptomatic of a larger problem? What if she didn’t live long enough to see me married?
I can’t go there .
Battling unwanted tears, I punched a number into my phone.
“Miceli.”
“Hi, sweetie, it’s me. Do you have time to cheer me up?”
“Always,” he said in an unhurried tone that wrapped dreamily around me. “Where shall I begin? By telling you how many days are left until our wedding, or by listing the things I love most about you?”
I dried my eyes, feeling better already. “Etienne, how would you feel if the wedding turned out a little different than we’d originally planned?”
“Different how?”
“Different church, different restaurant, different town.”
“As long as the bride stays the same, I won’t complain.”
“So you’d be okay with a bridal reception in a livestock auction barn with crepe paper streamers and plug-in room fresheners?”
Silence. “What happened to the elegant restaurant with the string quartet and candlelight?”
“Here’s the scoop. Have you ever seen the movie Twister ?”
As I filled him in on Windsor City’s recent disaster, I watched Nana and Jackie hobnobbing with several guests who were seated around patio tables, drinking and swatting mosquitoes. August Manning waved a deck of playing cards in front of Reno O’Brien, drumming up a game of gin rummy, no doubt, while the Peabody sisters and Vern Grundy sat side by side, staring at mugs of ale. When Joleen Barnum shouted, “Go,” Vern and the two Peabodys chugged down their brew, then slammed their mugs onto the table. Joleen consulted her stopwatch, announcing in a thundering tone, “And our winner is—by one and eight-tenths seconds—Ap-rrrril Peabody!”
Applause. Table pounding. Foot stomping. A deep-throated chant that sounded like, “Ape-ape-ape.” Gee, these Floridians really knew how to celebrate a victory. Jimbob Barnum turned a cartwheel on the deck, which propelled him onto the surrounding rail like a gymnast on a balance beam. He flipped backward into a handstand, lowered himself onto his chest, then, with the ease of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat, coiled himself into a Chinese ball with his bony tush coming to rest on his head. Quite a trick for a guy who wouldn’t have to jump to dunk a basketball.
“Your mother’s offer of help is very generous, Emily, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather elope? I could arrange everything. We could be married on the summit of the Jungfrau, or on the shores of Lake Como.”
The shores of Lake Como sounded a lot more romantic than Arnie Arnoldussen’s auction barn, and yet…“If we elope, does that mean no family present?”
“It can mean anything you want it to mean.”
An alpine lake or a hog barn? The fragrance of Italianate gardens or the masking power of room deodorizer? The choice seemed pretty clear cut. “It wouldn’t feel like a celebration if Nana, and Tilly, and George, and the rest of my family weren’t there. Is that all right with you?”
“I’d prefer it that way, bella . Imagine what lively entertainment our grandmothers will provide when they meet.”
I regarded Nana as she snapped a picture of Jimbob twisting himself into another contortion. If they meet .
“Tell Jackie I’m enjoying her novel, Emily. Do you know how much of it is autobiographical?”
“Probably all of it.”
“Really?” His voice dipped an octave to a soft, throaty whisper. “Her love scenes are quite…stimulating. I didn’t realize
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