I crouch at Row Three, Table Six, twisting a length of dusty-blue polyester grosgrain ribbon around the number card until the bow sits crisp and snug. A hush lives under these apple trees — only the low mutter of distant thunder and the rustle of the orchard leaves rubbing together like anxious hands. At this point, I’m glad I fought for polyester over satin ribbons. The fairy lights strung overhead blink steadily, wedding perfect.
One last ribbon, I tell myself. Secure, snap a photo for Meredith’s nightly update, then maybe I’ll let myself breathe. Fingers crossed that these will hold.
My phone vibrates against the grass. Probably the weather app again — it’s been shrieking SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING all afternoon. I silenced the last five alerts. The forecast can wait until the table numbers behave. I finish tightening the knot, wipe dew from my knees, and finally swipe the screen.
SIMON BAXTER flashes across the top, followed by a single, taunting link. No greeting, no emoji—just:
tiktok.com/@CassandraCares: Age is just a number, especially if he works for free
With my stomach pitching, I tap. Cassandra’s face fills the screen, banana-smooth hair under rink-bright lights at Butter & Crust. “Small-town scoop!” she chirps. The camera pans to Dylan and me at the pie counter. He’s laughing, hand on the small of my back while I lean in conspiratorially. A pink heart zooms over the shot, and a snarky text overlay enters the screen: “Bluewater’s Cougar scores discount carpenter!”
Views: 9,876… 9,941… 9,993.
A gust clips the orchard, flinging my curls across my cheek. My lungs forget their job.
Another buzz.
Figured you’d prefer to get ahead of the narrative. Good luck, Addy.
Good luck? He might as well wish me a pleasant funeral.
I’m still staring at the heart-frozen screen when headlights crest the gravel lane. Twin beams sweep the orchard and catch on the arch, turning the cedar pale gold. Meredith’s silver Mercedes glides to a stop. An Escalade that must be her father’s hulks behind it.
I pocket the phone, paste on my “everything is under control” smile. My heart is pounding so hard that the ground seems to pulse with it.
Meredith emerges first, perfection pressed into a cream blazer. Rain-charged wind whips the hem around her knees. She hugs herself as if the orchard chill is personal. I step forward.
“Meredith! You’re early. Wonderful.” My voice sounds helium-thin.
Mr Langford, the Member of Parliament for Huron–Bruce, sweeps out next, tailored trench coat snapping like a flag. One look says he’s run campaigns, disasters, subcommittees... and I am currently polling low. Gina Langford trails him, stilettos stabbing the turf.
Meredith forces a smile. “Daddy wanted to see the lighting test in person.”
“Of course.” I gesture up. “LED strands on dimmers. Full glow or candle flicker at the touch of a remote.”
Mr Langford ignores the pitch. “Ms. Bennett, a private moment.”
Meredith’s eyes flutter apology as she steps aside. I follow him to the aisle’s edge. Gina plants herself at his shoulder.
He flips his phone toward me — Cassandra’s TikTok. The heart, the caption, the skyrocketing view counter now past twelve thousand. “Explain.”
My mouth dries. “That clip is taken out of context. Dylan Smyth is a certified carpenter. He’s volunteering labor in exchange for my pro-bono coordination of the Birch Harbor fire-hall fundraiser. Full disclosure, it’s completely legitimate.”
Gina lifts a sculpted brow. “Disclosure is only disclosure when the stakeholders hear it before the internet.” My humiliation and frustration race to hit the roof.
“I planned to mention the barter on tomorrow’s call.” Weak. I feel it. The wind nips colder, or maybe that’s Mr Langford’s stare.
“We invested six figures in this event,” he says, voice cutting through the leaves’ rustle. “If a whisper of impropriety taints my daughter’s wedding or my re-election prospects, your contract penalty clause will look merciful.”
Thunder grumbles closer, and fairy bulbs shiver. “Mr Langford, I assure you —”
A sharper gust slams the aisles, rattling glass lanterns. Meredith startles. Gina scolds the sky. Wind lifts the train of her blazer.
Lightning forks nearby, flashing a dazzling white. Instantly, the orchard plunges black. Fairy lights blink twice, then extinguish. An apple bucket skitters across the center aisle, clanking like a warning bell.
“Power’s on a surge strip,” I shout, fumbling the remote. No response — dead. A streak of fear slices my spine.
Mr Langford eyes the dark arch. “Your assurances are under review.”
