“And tellherfamily it’shisfamily’s emergency. Throw something in about everyone needing some privacy right now, so they don’t compare notes.”
“You’re diabolical,” I tell her.
“I’m good at crisis management and herding cats. You have to be, in my line of work. And in case this wasn’t clear, I think you shouldactuallyrebook the wedding for next month so we can point to that if Weggers starts sniffing around.”
“Are we available?”
“I did some scrambling and snuck her into a Sunday eleven-a.m. slot at the end of October. We’ll do two that day.”
“Can we pull that off?”
“We have to.”
She names a date and time, and I write it down.
“Done,” I say. “Or will be, as soon as I get back there.”
“Which will be when?” she asks.
“Eden said he’s at his family’s beach house on the Washington coast, which is another…four and a half hours? We get her quilts?—”
“Definitely get the quilts, but the main thing is you sit them down and make them talk it out until he realizes he was just freaking out and begs her for forgiveness and another chance. He’s head over heels for her, and his ambivalence was temporary insanity caused by cold feet.”
I can, unfortunately, picture the scenario Hanna is describing, and I straight-up hate it. I hate the image of Paul pleading for forgiveness, but even more than that, I hate the idea of Eden granting it. Of her slinking back into his squirrelly commitment-phobe arms and telling him that she understands his cold feet are nothing but that.
Still, there are two things I hatealmostas much as that scenario: Hanna losing her business, and Blue Iron Mining getting my family’s land.
And in the end, it doesn’t matter how much I hate the idea of Eden and Paul getting back together, because even if they don’t, I’m still the man who destroyed her life.
“Do you really think it’s just cold feet?”
“Yes,” Hanna says.
Sometimes I really appreciate my sister’s clear-cut view of the world.
“I’ll fix it,” I tell her again and hang up.
When I get backinto the car, Eden’s on the phone.
“I know this is asking a lot, but can you take over running In Stitches till I get back?” she says to whoever it is. “Honestly, taking care of the store is the best thing you can do for me. I swear. I don’t want company. I want to lick my wounds.”
Silence.
“Rhys can drive me. Despite his other flaws, he seems like a safe driver.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, and she rolls her eyes in my direction.
I start the car again.
“He doesn’t count as company,” she tells the phone.
“Jesus,” I say. “Tell us how you really feel.”
“I love you, too, sweetie. And I’m going to be fine. I’ve been through worse.” She’s silent for a bit, then says, “I know. But I’ve done it before, and I can do it again… Yeah. Love you. Bye.” She drops her phone into her lap, taps to hang up. “Mari,” she tells me.
We both stare at the road for several miles without speaking. I’m thinking about how to broach the million-dollar question.
“Hanna says,” I begin, “that cold feet are really comm?—”
