Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Autumn set alerts on her phone for anything to do with Henry—which is both endearing and creepy—and nothing has appeared online yet.
“Before I forget, Abigail!” Mama helps herself to another heap of Caesar salad. “I convinced Chester Fry to lend us his carriage.”
“You mean that dilapidated wagon he uses to get around?” Chester Fry is Amish. That’s his only mode of transportation. What on earth does Mama need with Chester Fry’s wagon?
“It ain’t dilapidated. It catches everyone’s notice when he’s out and about.”
“That’s because they’re afraid the wheels will fall off.”
“It’s gonna happen any day now,” Jed agrees.
Mama chortles. “It only sounds like that, but it’s good and sturdy, promise. Big enough to fit you and the girls in it.”
Me and the girls. It dawns on me. She means for the wedding. I should have known that was what this was about.
“Oh! And you need to give Angela a call so she knows what she can get started on planning for you. She’s who you want for your maid of honor. Good head on her shoulders. Joy and Diana are sweet and they sure are pretty, but they couldn’t organize a lemonade stand if they were given step-by-step instructions.”
My fist clenches around my fork. Now she’s telling me who my maid of honor will be?
“May, what kind of cheese is in the lasagna?” Henry asks, rubbing my forearm.
“Oh, do you like it? I make the ricotta myself. I find it much creamier than anything I can find from a supplier. Every time I serve this dish at the restaurant, it sells out, so I must be on to something.” She grins. “I know this isn’t the same caliber as those meals your Michelin Star chefs make you, but folks around here seem to like it.”
“No, you’re right, it’s not.” Henry winks. “It’s better.”
The key to Aunt May’s heart is complimenting her cooking, and Henry seems to have figured that out. She beams. “You’ll have to come into the Pearl to try my cheesecake, then. I use the same ricotta.”
“You would not have to twist my arm. That is a favorite of mine.”
“It is?” I rack my brain thinking back on meals we’ve had together. Has Henry ever ordered dessert? “How did I not know that?” Is he telling the truth or is it part of a game to win May over?
“Because you’ve only been together for two minutes,” Jed mutters under his breath.
I frown. Jed and I have been on much better terms over the last few months. I’ve even started considering him a friend. But he seems gloomy tonight. If I didn’t know better, I’d say news of my engagement might be too big a pill for him to swallow.
I dismiss his sulking and focus on Henry. “So if our wedding cake is made of cheese, you’ll eat it?”
“Oh, I’ll definitely eat it,” he teases, with a wicked glint in his eye that tells me he’s not talking about wedding cake.
I give his ankle a playful kick as my face flushes. “Good, I’ll tell Jill.” I spent two hours on the phone with Wolf Hotel’s event planner yesterday. It was overwhelming, to say the least, and I think she sensed it because she gave me an easy and fun homework assignment—set up a Pinterest board with wedding ideas.
“Who’s Jill?” Mama asks.
Here we go. “Our wedding planner.”
“You don’t need one of those pretentious fussy bodies,” she scoffs, waving me off. “They cost a fortune and all she’ll do is take over your wedding.”
“Imagine that,” I force out through clenched teeth.
Daddy clears his throat, and Henry presses his lips together to smother his smile.
“No need, anyway. I’ve already got Peggy Sue’s niece lined up to make the cake—”
“Let’s leave all that wedding business for after dinner,” my father cuts in, his uneasy gaze on me as I silently fume.
But, as usual, Mama’s not listening to anyone but herself. “She’s making you a fruitcake. A good, traditional choice.”
“I hate fruitcake!” I snap, tossing my fork down. It lands with a clatter. “Peggy Sue’s niece is not making our wedding cake.” I can’t take another minute of this. It has to end now. “Angela, Joy, and Diana are not my bridesmaids. And I am not riding to my wedding in a wagon driven by the Amish man who lives down the road!” I may as well lay it all out on the table. “We’re not getting married in Greenbank, Mama.”
Silence hangs like a heavy curtain around the dining table as anxious glances flitter toward Bernadette, waiting for her reaction.
Her face is a mask of shock, as if my words have slapped her across the cheek without warning. As if she couldn’t foresee this. “What do you mean, you’re not getting married in Greenbank? Of course you are. You’re a Mitchell. This is your home. Your family is here, your congregation is here!”