“Such as?”
“We soften it,” Nicole said, stepping closer to the platform. “We keep the structure—don’t move it, don’t hide it—but we dress it in a way that fits the Starling Room’s look. Beautiful white drapery, maybe asymmetrical, with winter greens and a little sparkle. You still see the shape and feel the history, but your eye reads ‘romantic arch,’ not ‘backyard arbor.’”
“A veil for the trellis,” Cindy murmured, and the idea clicked into place. “I have extra fabric from these curtains in storage. The same cream silk. Would that work?”
“Yes,” Nicole said, narrowing her eyes as if imagining the final result. “And we can pin it so it’s removable. For photos, you can have different versions—some with more drape, some less. Dominique gets her chic, we keep our legacy.”
Cindy smiled. “Let’s try it.”
An hour later, with open bins of fabric, a stepladder, and giant clips, they worked until the wood wore a wedding dress—soft folds cascading from the top, edges pooling slightly on the floor, the trellis’s sturdy bones peeking through just enough to feel like they wanted it that way.
“Pretty,” Nicole breathed, stepping aside to survey their work. “It’s stillitself, but it’s styled.”
The door creaked. “Whoa—what are you doing?”
Jack stood just inside, snow-scattered jacket half unzipped, a blue beanie jammed on his head at a crooked angle. He tookin the white drape swathing the arch, his expression falling from curiosity to alarm.
Cindy lifted a hand in a peaceable wave. “Hey. We’re just trying something.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it beats taking it back to Grandma Irene’s dormant garden,” Cindy said, coming down the platform toward him. “I’m afraid the Aisle Files lady wasn’t a fan.”
He gave a scoffing laugh. “So?”
“So, we covered it,” Cindy said.
“You can’t…cover that.” Jack’s gaze flicked from the silk to Cindy, sharp with feeling. “It’s meant to show.”
Cindy moved toward him, palms out. “We’re nothidingit. It’s just…softened.”
He shook his head, jaw working. “Your grandparents’ initials are carved into that post.”
“They still are,” she said quickly. “Just…behind this fabric.” She gave a small, hopeful smile. “We can pin it back for certain shots. We can even take it off entirely if you?—”
Jack stepped onto the platform and placed his hand where hers had been a minute earlier, pressing the silk as if he could feel the letters through it. “I don’t like this at all, Cin. We can’t do this.”
“Jack?” Cindy blinked at him. “Is it that important?”
“Don’t you think it is?” he countered.
She threw a look at Nicole, who wore a classic “I don’t want to be in the middle of this” expression.
“I’ll let you guys talk,” she said quickly, hopping down from the platform stage.
Cindy wanted to call her back, the business owner in her needing the support from her one-person marketing team. But the mother in her didn’t want to put her precious daughter in themiddle, so she just nodded and waited to talk until she and Jack were alone.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, standing long enough for Cindy to realize they were in the very same positions on that platform that they would be in on the day they remarried.
And for some reason, this felt like their first test.
“I’m not really sure what to say,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it was that important to you.”
His dark eyes softened. “Well, it is.” He swallowed and stabbed his fingers into his mostly silver hair, letting out a sigh. “We were the only couple in the whole Starling history since Irene and Owennotto get married under that trellis.”
She nodded, remembering how and why they’d made that decision thirty years ago. They’d married at a local hotel, and the trellis was in the garden—it hadn’t been a big deal at the time.
“Do you think…” She let out a laugh of disbelief. “That’s why we got divorced?”
