“Ineed to stop and call Hanna,” I say once we’re on I-5 and heading for Paul’s destination, which is, according to Eden, his family’s beach house.
Because let’s review.
I’m supposed to make sure that Eden and Paul get married…and he just jilted her.
If Arthur Weggers finds out, Hanna will lose her business and we’ll lose our family’s land.
The bride in my car is understandably wounded and furious and determined to track down her (ex?) fiancé.
It’s unclear whether this situation is salvageable at all, and if so, how I’d salvage it—but I have to try.
“Fine,” she says.
When I pull over, there are twenty-seven missed calls from Hanna and another eighteen or so from my other siblings—she must have called them.
There are, however, no calls from Arthur Weggers. I’m going to take that as a good sign since I’m pretty sure he would lose no time in lording it over me if he had evidence I’d shat the bed.
I don’t listen to my voicemails. I can guess what they say.
Hanna answers right away. “What the fuck, Rhys? Where are you?”
I quickly fill her in on everything that has happened since I got Paul’s note and texted her, and she curses and moans for a while—as well she should, given the stakes.
But she’s Hanna—ever practical—so in a few minutes she rallies and says, “You have to get them back together.”
I’ve already thought about whether I can reunite Eden and Paul and rescue this situation for Hanna. In fact, at first, I thought that’s where Eden was going. To chase down Paul, to plead with him. And as much as I didn’t want that to happen, I also knew it might be the best possible outcome. For Hanna, definitely. And maybe even for Eden.
“Look,” Hanna says. “I know she says she wants those quilts. But maybe that’s an excuse. A way she can chase him down without looking pathetic.”
“Why would she want to do that? Hejiltedher.”
Hanna makes a scoffing sound. “People get cold feet!” she says. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to drag a groom out of a bar, pour water over his head and coffee down his throat, and prop him up at the altar.”
“Jesus!” I say. “No wonder I have a job.”
“It’s not real ambivalence,” she says. “Theywantto get married. They’re just freaking the fuck out, because that’s what people about to get marrieddo. The worst case I’ve ever seen was two brides, both with cold feet. They’re really happy now, though. I get a Christmas card every year from them thanking me for sorting them out. So that’s what this is—cold feet. He just got ’em worse than average. So track him down, sober him up, and let’s get this show back on the road. I told Weggers we were postponing the wedding because of a family emergency. Prove me right.”
“And he bought the family-emergency thing?”
“Who knows what goes on in that man’s head?” she says.
Can’t argue with that. “What if I can’t get them back together?”
“We can’t go there,” Hanna says. “We have to believe for now. Family emergency. Cold feet. Postponed wedding. Find him.”
Her dogged certainty is contagious. “Okay.”
“In the meantime, Arthur Weggers says you have to do all the rebooking and rescheduling yourself. Apparently you can delegate individual tasks to me, but I can’t start doing damage control according to my own preferences, or you’re not doing your job.”
I groan. Mr. Letter of the Law. “Okay. Got it. On it. I’ll contact the vendors?—”
“And the guests, obviously. Tell them what we’re telling Weggers.”
“I can’t tell Paul’s parents it’s a family emergency.”
“Tell them it’sherfamily’s emergency.”
“She doesn’t have much family,” I say, thinking,See, I do know you.
