"I apologize in advance," I say through chuckles. "This is going to be a really, really uncomfortable night."
12
BLAIR
I'm standing under the massive oak trees behind the Barnes farmhouse, surveying the area that will be transformed into tonight's rehearsal dinner venue. Some trees are easily a hundred years old, their trunks so wide that three people holding hands couldn't wrap their arms around them. Their canopies spread out like a natural cathedral, providing shade over an area large enough for the tables we're about to set up.
Bill Barnes emerges from the barn carrying a folding table under each arm, moving like someone who's been doing physical labor his entire life. He's wearing faded jeans and an old, torn T-shirt, work boots that have seen better decades, and a baseball cap advertising a seed company.
"Morning, Sailor," he calls out. "Hope you slept well despite that damn bed. I keep telling Moira we need to replace it, but she's sentimental about it."
I take the tables from him and start unfolding them. "Slept great, thanks. This is going to be beautiful once we get it set up."
"Moira's vision," he says, pointing to where he wants the first table. "She's got an eye for these things. Forty-three people tonight. The rest of the guests arrive tomorrow."
We work together, setting up table after table. The rental company delivered them yesterday—rectangular tables that seat three on either side when they're lined up. They'll be covered by white linens that Liv and Moira spent hours pressing this morning. Each trip back to the barn reveals more supplies: matching chairs with cushioned seats, centerpiece bases, and extension cords for the lights we'll string later.
"Is Liv helping Moira in the kitchen?" Bill asks as we position the first table.
"Yeah, Moira got her making green bean salad."
"Sounds about right." Bill chuckles. "Though knowing Liv, she's probably reorganizing the entire menu. That girl sure likes to be in control."
"They call her 'The Boss' at work," I say with a grin.
Bill laughs. "That doesn't surprise me one bit. I hope she's not walking all over you?"
"I can handle her," I reply with a wink. "What was she like growing up?" I'm not asking because it's what a girlfriend should ask as part of this charade. I'm asking because I genuinely want to understand how the sharp-edged woman I met in that Manhattan coffee shop came from this wholesome place. It just seems so jarring.
Bill pauses in his work, a fond smile crossing his weathered face. "Livvy was independent. Stubborn as a mule. Smart as a whip. She always had big plans, even when she was little." He continues positioning chairs around the table. "When she was ten, she decided she wanted to be an architect. Drew up plans to convert the farm. When she was twelve, she announced she was going to be a diplomat and travel the world solving international crises."
"Sounds like she always knew she'd move away."
"Oh, she did. And we encouraged it, even when it broke our hearts a little." Bill straightens up, looking out over the fields. "When she was fourteen, she asked if she could convert the barn into her own apartment. Said she needed 'space to think' and that living with the family was 'stifling her creative development.'"
I laugh out loud. "At fourteen? What did you tell her?"
"That she could have all the space she wanted when she turned eighteen and went to college, but until then, she was stuck with us cramping her style." His eyes twinkle at the memory. "Then there was the time she decided our farm wasn't 'efficient enough' and presented us with a complete business plan for modernizing our operations."
"And what happened to those suggestions?"
"Some of her ideas were actually pretty good. But the part where she suggested we fire all our seasonal help and replace them with automated equipment?" He shakes his head. "I explained that the Robins family had been helping us with harvest for twenty years, and automation wasn't going to help us pay their kids' college tuition." Bill's expression softens as he continues. "You know what she said after that? She got real quiet for a minute, then told me she felt terrible—that she hadn't thought about automation putting people out of work. Said she'd been so focused on the numbers and efficiency that she forgot real families depended on those jobs. She's always had a good heart underneath all that ambition."
I smile. These stories paint such a vivid picture of Liv as a driven, ambitious teenager, planning her escape from rural life. "She sounds like she was a handful."
"Oh, she still is." Bill fixes me with a direct look. "But I suspect you already know that." He wipes his hands on his jeans. "Now it’s time for the fun part. You afraid of heights?"
"Not particularly."
"Good, because we've got about fifty strings of lights to hang, and these trees don't make it easy." He gestures toward several large boxes stacked near the barn. "Emma picked these out herself—little whimsical fairy lights, she calls them. Says they'll make everything look 'magical.'"
We drag the boxes over to the tree, and I'm amazed by the sheer quantity of lights. String after string of tiny bulbs, each cord about thirty feet long. This is going to take hours.
"How do we even begin with this?" I ask, looking up at the maze of branches above us.
"Very carefully and with a lot of patience," Bill replies, pulling two lightweight ladders from the barn. "I'll take the left side, you do the right. The trick is to follow the natural shape of the tree—don't fight it, work with it."
I balance on my ladder as I try to mirror Bill's movements on the other side. My hands aren't used to this kind of work—cybersecurity doesn't require getting your hands dirty. But I manage, copying whatever Bill is doing as we slowly work toward the middle, string by string.
