Your mother
IT WOULD BE the most perfect day of her brother Darek’s life. Even if Grace Christiansen had to personally hand-dip two hundred strawberries.
“If you don’t leave now, you’re going to miss the entire wedding.” Her assistant, Raina Beaumont, reached around Grace and moved the bowl of strawberries away from her. “I might not be going to culinary school in a month like you, but I swear I can dip these without making a mess.”
But—the word touched her lips a moment before Grace nodded and stepped away from the island in the middle of the industrial kitchen.
The afternoon sun creased the red tile floor and stewed the smells of the kitchen—wild mushrooms simmering in garlic-and-wine sauce, focaccia bread baking in the oven.
She could stand here, close her eyes, drink in the scents, and die happy. Something about seeing her brother—her wounded, broken oldest brother—smile at his beautiful bride-to-be last night at the rehearsal dinner had filled her soul right to the brim. Yes, of course she would dip strawberries and hang twinkly lights from the rafters of the folk school building. Because that’s what family did—they shared in dreams, even helped make them come true.
Raina pushed her toward the door. “Seriously, I’ll get Ty to chase you out of here or, better yet, throw you over his shoulder and—oh, for pete’s sake, you have chocolate on your dress.”
“What? Shoot, where’s a rag?”
But Raina had already grabbed a wet cloth and was dabbing at the dark stain on the collar of Grace’s purple dress.
Grace checked her reflection in the microwave door over Raina’s shoulder. Her hair had withstood the test of the kitchen, still caught up in netting. Eden’s spectacular idea of having her hair done before she set foot in the kitchen to oversee the final preparations might not have deserved the battle they’d waged. But she shouldn’t have worn the dress. Unfortunately, she’d managed that brilliant thought with no help from her big sister, and now she’d have a stained gown for the pictures. . . .
Pictures!
“Oh no.”
“I know. It’s leaving a greasy spot,” Raina said.
“I was supposed to be there an hour early for pictures.” Grace pushed Raina’s hands away. “Eden is going to murder me.”
“I thought this was Ivy and Darek’s wedding.” Ty looked up from where he stood at the stove, stirring the mushroom sauce. His hairnet looked silly over his dark, nearly shaved head, but no one took his job more seriously than Ty Teague, youngest offspring of the Teague clan. At seventeen, he could outcook any of the Pierre’s Pizza line cooks. And he was a starter on the Deep Haven Huskies football team, not unlike his legendary older brother, DJ.
“Ty, eyes on the sauce. And it is; it’s just . . . Eden is a little exacting. She has us all scheduled to the minute.”
Raina, while listening, had pushed End on the microwave panel, where she’d paused the timer.
Grace stared at the digital clock. “Oh . . . no. What time is it?”
Raina checked her watch. “About 3:20.”
“I thought it was 2:07. I’m an idiot—I thought it was weird the clock didn’t change. No, no—” She pulled off her apron, heading for the door.
“What?”
“The ceremony started at 3:00!” Grace banged through the door, then spun around and poked her head back into the kitchen. “Listen, fire up the grills at 3:30. Don’t turn them on high or they’ll smoke—just keep them on low. That way the chicken won’t burn. And cook the ravioli al dente. Otherwise it will sit in the sauce and—”
“Go!” Raina glanced at Ty, shaking her head.
“Don’t forget the cupcakes! They’re in the freezer—”
“Ty, we have a situation—”
“Fine.” Grace let the door close behind her and stood for a moment in the most perfect vision of a wedding reception she could imagine.
Her vision. Okay, Ivy’s too, but the elegantly rustic room had romance draped all over it. Grace and the rest of the Christiansen women had spent all day yesterday wrapping the timber beams with twinkle lights, covering the long picnic tables with white linens and birch bark–wrapped candles, surrounding the dance floor with potted cedars, also laden with white lights. They’d hung sheer drapes across the length of the room and dropped them behind the serving tables, which, in an hour, would be filled with Grace’s creations.
She’d spent a month putting together tonight’s menu of grilled lemon-rosemary chicken, wild-mushroom ravioli, parmesan-and-rosemary focaccia, wild-greens salad with buttermilk-Romano dressing, and chocolate-dipped strawberries. Thankfully, the local donut/cupcake shop, World’s Best Donuts, had provided the wedding cupcakes.