"Her name is Grace. She's been in the industry forever. Just trust whatever she says and tell her Ranar sent you. I'll be expecting her call."
Silva
"If you're going to make valet the only bleedin' option for an event in which the guest list is well into triple digits, why, I ask, are there only three attendants?"
Silva glanced over the center console of Tate's car, fighting her grin. His voice was tight and strained, as if he were a man at the end of his tether, dealing with one impossible to manage scenario after the next, and not merely sitting in the valet line for a Friday evening cocktail reception.
"I'm assuming you're not expecting an answer from me, right?"
She couldn't hold back a giggle at his swift look, stretching out until she could reach the hand that was tapping against steering in aggravation.
"Remind me again if we're actually meant to be here?"
"I was technically invited. You've literally looked at the invitation like ten times, Tate. You were holding in your hand just this morning.But, I did forget to RSVP. Which is why we're going a little later, after the dinner service. So no, we are notcrashing the wedding banquet. We're totally crashing the open bar, though."
She had grown up going to posh, small party events at Talontail Winery. The original building had a large dining room, where they would host tastings, occasionally accompanied by small plates. The winery had increased its footprint steadily over the years, the vineyard itself long ago crossing the border into Greenbridge Glen. This newer facility, built on the new and, overlooking the hundreds of acres of grape vineyard, had only been built in the last year, as the winery attempted to keep pace with the neighboring farm and other businesses in town.
That morning he'd had a bit of an existential meltdown, fretting over the contents of the bag she had packed for him. "Silva, are you going to share with me a single pertinent detail or do I need to contrive to contact the bride’s mother myself? Are we going to the service or just the reception? How formal? Is it a sit-down dinner or am I going to be the only langer in formal dress for some country ceilidh in someone's back garden? I can forgive you for much, little dove, but having me show up looking like a rag-picking vagabond to a black tie affair isn't something I'll forget."
"Stop!" She’d giggled, throwing up her hands. "You are being ridiculous! You are the most dramatic elf in the entire world. It's just a wedding! Afternoon service that we’re not attending, cocktail hour, plated dinner. Semiformal evening dress. I can promise you there will be someone there in black tie and also some random cousin wearing flip-flops!”
She’d fallen back on the bed in a puddle of giggles as he stomped out of the room, returning a moment later brandishing the invitation.
"See? It doesn't say anything! There's nothing useful there, which I'm taking to mean it's just an average wedding. You probably don't even need to wear a suit!"
The look he'd given her in the mirror could have frozen the lake in the center of Greenbridge Glen's little business district.
"The most dramatic elf in theworld," she’d repeated, laughing again.
She’d downplayed the event to Tate, but Silva was wildly excited to crash attend this wedding with him. It was the first event ofhershe was attending at her side. The first time he would meet some of her friends, even if they weren’t people she’d seen in years, the first time she would introduce him to a whole group of people officially asherTate.
By then, she had met a larger collection of the odd cast of characters who populated his existence. Business owners and bar keeps, musicians and pottery artists, although his circle of actual friends, people he counted on and trusted, could be counted on a single hand. These weren’t her true friends either, but she was excited to reciprocate at an event that wouldn't be as fraught as something official at the club.
Once they were crunching across the gravel lot to the doors, Tate gripped her hand once more. "You know the bride from school,” he repeated, as if he were studying for an exam, “but not the groom. And neither of them belong to your club."
"Yes, correct on all counts."
"Do we need cover stories?"
She giggled, squeezing his hand and slowing her step, allowing the couple approaching from the rear to pass them. He was nervous. He hadn’t said as much, but she already knew his anxiety manifested in him attempting to harness control over whatever he could. Her bathroom had been scrubbed within an inch of its life, the contents of her cupboards had been rotated, and he’d changed the oil on her car, after it appeared in the parking lot outside her window, delivered by one of the bus boys from Clover. He’d changed his clothes several times beforeleaving the house, and she knew that beneath his shirt, the claret-colored little bird lay against his chest in its locket.
"They’re both Elvish, but they don’t belong to my club. I love the way you're treating this like a pool hustle. What should our cover stories be?"
He pursed his lips, considering. "Well, obviously you were unable to RSVP in the appropriate amount of time because you've been traveling abroad. You'd never be so rude to just show your face where it's not expected otherwise. And you'd not commit the social crime of bringing some cheeky hoor you're only seeing casually to imbibe someone else's free liquor all night."
"Yes, you're right," she agreed. "Obviously we must be engaged. And we're just returning from a trip abroad, visiting your family."
"In County Clare. I want to be from County Clare in this story."
She giggled again, pulling his face down to meet hers. "I don't think that's going to be relevant, but absolutely. That's where we were. Let's go."
She had a feeling their cover stories would not be necessary, and she'd been right. The guest list was well into triple digits, the winery barely accommodating the amount of bodies packed into the space. Even still, Silva heard herself introducing him as her fiancé over and over again, her facial muscles aching from the strength of her smile.The more you say it, the more it might come true. Wish this right into existence.
"The state of air travel is a bleedin’ crime,” he scoffed, just having used their hastily designed cover story himself as she gripped his hand. “It doesn't make a difference where you're headed or what carrier you're flying. There used to be standards."
Silva beamed at his side, the troll couple with whom he was engaged in conversation near the bar exclaiming an agreement,launching into a disaster story about a recent holiday of their own. She felt as if she might float away.This is how easy it could be. Together, with no one caring.
Tomorrow, they were going to have lunch with her grandmother and everything was going to change again. Unlike the odd state of flux they'd found themselves in the past month,thischange would be for the better, she reminded herself.And permanent. Him and your family. That's all you need.
