“Well, as I said before, you think he’s making a mistake. Or…”—she looks around and walks closer to me—”You’re standing close enough to yell something like, ‘Don’t get married. I still love you, Steve!’”
I laugh. “So, I’m here for the groom and not the bride, huh?”
“It makes it a little more dramatic and romantic, don’t you think? Jaded bride runs away after she learns the groom loved his best friend. She finds some hot man at a bar. Boom, love at first sight.”
“You could make that into a movie.” I almost clap but I don’t since it’d interrupt the ceremony, again.
“I’ll think about pitching it to Hollywood.”
“You might want to try a film producer. Hollywood is a city,” I say sarcastically.
She gives me a lopsided grin. “So, if it’s not to stop the wedding, why are you here then?”
Not that she needs to know, but I answer. “To observe the happy wedding of Steve and…what’s her name?”
Red shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. I just made up a name for the groom. He looks like a young Steve Buscemi.”
I can only see his back, so I can’t confirm or deny her allegation. He might not, but since she has a wild imagination, I’ll pretend she’s right.
“So, you like to make up stories?”
“Don’t you? It’s a fun thing to do while you’re waiting.” She points at the couple sitting in the last row. The woman has a toddler on her lap. A man sits next to her looking just as bored as I am.
I feel you, buddy.
“That’s Steve’s cousin, Melvin. He’s always had a crush on Tiffany, but since he knocked up Georgia, he just has to watch the love of his life get married today.”
“Who is Tiffany?”
“The bride.”
I glance at her. “Nice gossip. I’m impressed by your abilities. You go around town watching intimate moments so you can write about them at night?”
She smiles—her light brown eyes crinkle. “You’d be wrong. I write during the day, but it has nothing to do with scandalous family affairs. Though, making up stories on the go keeps me entertained while I wait. That’s how my mom kept her three children occupied most of the time.”
“What do you write?”
“I’m a journalist, of sort,” she answers vaguely.
I glance again at Steve and Tiffany or, well, the bride and groom. They’re probably Bob and Rita. Why is Red covering their wedding? I don’t recognize them, but maybe they’re socialites or somehow important enough to print an article about this crucial moment.
“Are you here to cover the wedding?”
She shows me a silver tray tucked under her arm. “No. I’m also a cooking consultant.”
“Nice joke.” I’m waiting for her to smirk or something. She’s deadpan serious about this weird title. “Is that a real thing?”
“No, but it could be since it says so on my business cards.” She pulls out her card and reads it out loud. “Chloe Lafferty, cooking consultant.” Then, she hands it to me. “It’s pretty official, don’t you think.”
I pretend to analyze it. The card is cute. The C in her name is a curved ladle. “You’re right. Nothing says it’s legit better than a business card.” I wink at her, but I still don’t understand what she does. “So, you audit the caterer?” I joke.
She grins, and I’m starting to dig her smile. “That’d be silly. My passion is cooking. I’d love to start a catering business—Cater My Dreams—but I can’t afford to quit my day job. On the weekends, I help some companies who are overwhelmed with events or are short on personnel. Either I cook or I serve. It’s like outsourcing for events.”
That sounds like a lot of nonsense. She should quit her day job and do what she loves. Or I can teach her how to spend her free time. We could spend the weekend in this vineyard without any guests. Just the two of us naked and tasting each other.
“Let me get this straight. Instead of enjoying your weekends. You slave yourself and help celebrate these bizarre rituals?”
“Jaded,” she says, tapping her chin with her well-manicured index finger. “I’m guessing that if you ever stop a wedding, it’d be because you don’t believe in love.”
“It’s mostly weddings. They’re the prelude to a divorce.”
She gasps, and it’s adorable to see her in shock. “A man who doesn’t believe in marriage. What a refreshing concept?”
“I’m an innovator.” I use the same sarcastic tone she did.
“So, if you’re not going to stop the wedding and you don’t know the couple, why in the world are you here?”
“I take that you believe in them?” I scrunch my nose. “Weddings?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I’m not against them. If you find the perfect person to spend the rest of your life with, why not celebrate it?”
“You should celebrate being with that person every day, not just during the wedding or anniversaries.”
“I agree, and if you can’t do that, then don’t get married.”
“Do you think they’ll be celebrating their love every day?”
“You should look into becoming a marriage auditor.”
I laugh. “What is that?” I ask, humoring her. I like her so much that at this point, I’ll discuss the weather if it’ll keep her next to me. Maybe after she’s done working, we can have a little fun.
With a playful voice, she says, “I guess that’d be someone who goes to weddings, observes, and says, ‘This is going to end in divorce.’”
“That’d be a tragic job, but I’d take it. Someone has to do it. It’ll be a great way to stop divorces.”
“So, are you sentencing this one to a painful end?”
I glance at the couple, pretend to yawn, and shrug a shoulder. “Probably.”
She shakes her head. “That can’t happen. Not in this place. This vineyard is magical. Perfect. They chose the right venue. Couples that marry here stay together forever.”
Poor woman, she’s delusional. “You want me to believe that the couples who marry here have never divorced. That’s impossible.”
“It’s possible and very romantic.” She points toward the arch. “Just imagine standing there by the lake as the sun sets, professing your eternal love to your soulmate.”
The way she says it, with so much conviction.
As if love not only exists, but it can be permanent and good.
I want to believe that she’s right.
But she’s not.
Romantic love hurts people. It’s an idea of something unreal and dangerous.
Love is a lie.
“For a journalist, you’re too…idealistic.”
Her eyes become a pair of slits. “Why are you here?”
The smile is gone, and I instantly miss it.
“I’m going to buy this vineyard. The owner mentioned they rent the place for weddings, baptisms, and the occasional work retreat. He invited me to watch.” I glance at her. “He expects me to continue this tradition.”