I wrinkle my nose. I know exactly what “they”—the town gossips, the women in our mother’s book club, Nana’s friends at the DAR, and all the been-married-forevers who have nothing better to do than predict who is, or isn’t, going to get married next—say about the March girls.
Too many times a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Between the three of us, we’ve been part of a wedding party no less than twenty-seven times. Melody holds the record, with ten bridesmaid appearances and three turns as maid of honor, all before her twenty-third birthday. At this rate, she’ll have a dozen plastic bins full of hideous old dresses in our parents’ garage before she’s twenty-five. Aria and I aren’t far behind her, tied with seven stints each down the aisle in scratchy taffeta.
“Well, I think it’s nice that so many people want us in their weddings,” Melody says. “It means we have a lot of good friends.”
“Besides, you already proved them wrong, anyway,” I say to Aria’s back. “One March girl has been married, even if it didn’t stick. There’s still hope Melody and I will have weddings of our own someday. And you’ll get a second chance with someone truly fabulous.”
Romantic, happy-ever-after-dreams do come true, I think, a little wistfully. I see it all the time, and there’s going to come a day when I won’t be on the outside looking in at the romance while clearing the appetizer spread and wondering if we’re going to need more mustard.
It just might take a little longer than I was expecting…
After breaking up with Thomas last year things have been pretty quiet in the romance department. Not that Thomas was particularly romantic. He inherited his dad’s pool supply company and spent his days peddling chlorine and water filters, but as a former high school football star, his true passions were following Bliss River High’s football season, obsessing about his Fantasy Football Roster, and yelling at the television with his buddies down at the sports bar. We had a good time when we got together to grill catfish or see a movie, but there were never any real fireworks.
The earth didn’t move.
The butterflies didn’t take wing.
My knees didn’t go soft and spongy every time we touched.
Not like with He Who Shall Not Be Allowed Back in My Thoughts.
Him. Mason Freaking Stewart, the only guy who’s ever made me boil like chicken stock left in the crockpot a little too long.
There’s never been anyone like Mason. And not just with the physical stuff, either. He’s the only man I’ve ever really loved. Maybe the only one I’ll ever love. So perfect that no other man can compare.
Or, at least, he was perfect for me. We just fit and clicked and complimented each other so well, like dark chocolate cake and raspberry sauce followed by a sip of perfectly balanced port.
Until we didn’t, of course.
Until he left, taking a chunk of my innocent, trusting heart with him.
It’s a thought that plagues me in the night, when I’m lying awake in the dark, wondering when my days of sleeping solo will finally be over. What if I’ll never be able to fall for another man the way I fell for Mason Stewart?
No matter how much I adore weddings, and secretly long to be walking down that aisle as a bride, it’s hard to imagine trusting someone like that again.
“I suppose crazier things have happened, but getting hitched again sure as hell isn’t on my agenda,” Aria mumbles, pulling me from my thoughts. “Shouldn’t you two be cooking something? I hear cars starting to pull up.”
Her words have the desired effect. Soon, Melody and I are scrambling to get the black-forest-ham-stuffed puff pastries and other last minute appetizers into the oven and fetching the trays we prepared last night from the refrigerator. Next, we round up the servers from behind the building where they’ve gone to play a few quick hands of poker—they have a gambling-for-leftovers problem—and set them to work carrying everything out to the buffet.
Aria finishes prepping the white chocolate fountain and begins filling round serving trays with glasses of champagne and red, white, and pink wine (because pink is the bride’s favorite color), while Melody works on the sides and I fire up the grill for the steak and salmon.
Three hours later, I’m covered in a fine sheen of sweat and smell like a campfire, but the appetizers and sit-down dinner were a rousing success. The guests are well fed, well liquored, and enjoying the heck out of themselves.
All that’s left is to bring out the desserts and finish strong.
I start for the groom’s cakes, but Melody stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Go on. Go dance with the others,” she says, tugging at the bow on my apron. “Aria and I can handle it from here on out.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, running a hand over my heat-frizzed hair. “I can stay, I—”
“Go. You deserve to have some fun after how hard you’ve worked this week,” Aria says with a rare smile. “And I don’t want any of you klutzes dropping my cakes. I’ll bring them out myself as soon as Manny and George get the fountain set up.”
“All right. Thanks, guys. I appreciate you.” Deciding to ignore the grease stain on my skirt—it will be too dark on the dance floor to see it, anyway—I head for the kitchen door, ready to boogie with my best girlfriend until I succumb to exhaustion. Lisa and I have been dreaming about dancing at her wedding together since we were in middle school and the closest we’d gotten to dating was fighting over whether we’d marry a vampire or a werewolf, if we were the heroine of our favorite teen romance.
I was, and am, Team Werewolf, of course. The undead have their place, I guess, but I don’t want one in my bed. My toes get cold enough as it is.
I hurry across the ballroom where Manny and George—my two oldest employees, the ones who helped me start Ever After Catering three years ago—are setting up the dessert buffet, and out into the warm Georgia night.
Outside, paper lanterns hang laced between the trees, casting the large, dining tables with their centerpieces of gardenia blossoms in an orange glow. Dinner was cleared a while ago, but several of the older folks still sit in their chairs, nursing coffee and chatting, smiling as they watch the younger generations jump up and down on the dance floor beneath the trees.
If I had planned an outdoor wedding in May, I’m sure it would have rained, forced everyone to cram into the too-small-for-three-hundred-guests historic home, and the celebration would have been ruined. But Lisa has had better luck.
Perfect luck, in fact.
The weather was perfect, the ceremony was perfect, the food was perfect—if I do say so myself—and everyone looks like they’re having an amazing time.
Another blissful wedding in Bliss River almost in the books.
It’s always a good feeling, but tonight is super special.
Dodging two flower girls playing a rough game of tag with what’s left of their bouquets, I head for the dance floor. I can see Lisa and Matt in the center, surrounded by friends and family, and can’t wait to join them. All the exhaustion and stress of the day seep away as Celebrate Good Times cranks through the DJ’s speakers and the people I love let out a whoop of appreciation.
It is possibly the cheesiest of all wedding reception songs, but I love it. Sometimes a girl just wants to celebrate good times, and I’m not too cool to admit that.