I trudge up the stairs, knocking my boots against the last step and dropping my hood from my head. Aside from the storm that rolled through and trashed the cidery, it’s been nice all summer. Nature must have decided it would make up for the lack of rain we’ve had.
Of course, my mom and grandmother are sitting out here enjoying every bit of it. It seems like two types of people live in the Pacific Northwest—the people who thrive even in the rain and the people who complain about it but don’t want to move away because they still love it here.
These two are definitely the former. I think they sit outside during the rain more than they do when it’s sunny, so it’s no surprise they’re on the porch with blankets and a pitcher of lemonade sitting between them.
“Oh, can I have some?” I ask.
“You go right ahead, little one. I made it for you.”
I press a kiss to Nonna’s cheek, then pour myself a glass of lemonade before pulling the spare chair over by them as they swing back and forth.
“So, how are my two favorite gals doing today?”
They exchange a look.
“Uh-oh.” I wag my finger between them. “You two are up to something. Spill.”
“Well,” my mother says, dragging the word out. “I was at Sunnie’s the other day getting a fritter. Did you know they have a peach cobbler one now? Gosh, it’s so good. I don’t know how they come up with these flavors, but I think I could marry that man.”
She’s talking about Ken, the guy who owns the joint. The bakery was named after his wife, who passed away about ten years ago. The whole town loved her, and we all miss Sunnie dearly. She might not be around anymore, but we’re still treated to her amazing fritter recipes.
“I didn’t know that, but what does the new fritter flavor have to do with whatever you’re up to?”
“Oh, I’m getting to it. I’m getting to it.” She huffs, and I hide my smile behind a sip of lemonade. “Anyway, I was at Sunnie’s, and I overheard Darla—you know Darla, don’t you? She’s a receptionist at the high school?”
I know Darla. She ratted Izzy and me out when we skipped school. We were suspended for two daysandgrounded for a week.
“Anyway,” my mother continues, “her daughter is getting married. Just got engaged last week, and they’re already overwhelmed trying to plan. Of course I gave them your name, and they’ve heard of you, all right.”
My mother frowns, and I can only imagine exactly what it is they’ve heard. Is it about the fire? Or the allergic reaction my bride had that was so bad she had to leave her own wedding for the emergency room? Or was it the tall tale of raccoons being set loose during a reception? Itwasn’traccoons, it wasaraccoon—only one, and it was domesticated. It belonged to a guest. I think.
“But all bad reviews aside, they’ve heard you’re partnering with Stick Taps for Izzy’s wedding and areveryinterested in meeting with you.” My mother beams, clearly excited. “Especially since the bride wants to do a country chic wedding. She thinks the barn would be perfect.”
Itwouldbe perfect.
Hope fills my chest, and not for the first time. My email has been lighting up over the last few weeks from hopeful future brides looking for someone to help plan their weddings ... after they know Izzy’s is a success.
It’s a lot of pressure and why I haven’t let myself get too excited about the sudden surge in potential clients. Every time that hope starts to balloon, I reach out with a metaphorical pin and pop it. I can’t get ahead of myself. That’s what the curse wants. It wants me to get comfortable so it can swoop in and shoot me down yet again.
“That’s great.”
My mother’s smile falls. “That’s great?That’s all you have to say about that?”
“Well, yeah. It would be amazing, and I appreciate you putting it out there, but I don’t want to get too invested in it. You know, just in case it doesn’t ... work out.”
Nonna tsks. “Oh, little one, you’re worried about the curse, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m worried about the curse. I’m always worried about the curse. That’s what it does. It feeds on our happiness. I can’t let myself get too excited because we all know what will inevitably happen—I’m going to get my heart broken and lose everything.”
“That’s no way to live your life. You can’t let something as silly as this curse hold you back.”
“Says the woman who hasn’t been on a date in at least five years,” I say to my mother.
“Five years?!” Nonna gasps. “Please tell me that isn’t so.”
“Well . . .” my mother hedges.
She feels the same way I do about the curse. She’s just not willing to admit it out loud.
