Meg described it against her will. The western exposure. The ocean to the horizon. The railing where Anna set up easels. The string lights. The stray cat. The view that made every person who stood there say the same thing.
“Capacity?” Paige asked.
“Forty.”
“How many guests?”
“Just family. Friends. Maybe thirty.”
“Thirty people on a patio with an ocean view at sunset.” Paige looked at Natalie. “Meg, I’ve set up weddings at the Ritz. I’ve done Pelican Hill. I’ve done a vineyard in Napa that cost more than most people’s houses. None of them had what you just described.”
“It’s a grilled cheese restaurant,” Meg said again, but quieter this time.
“It’s your family’s restaurant,” Natalie said. She set her chai down and looked at Meg the way she looked at students who were about to make a decision they were scared of. “It’s where your grandmother spent fifty years. Where your sister teaches art and your brother makes eggs and your niece takes photographs. Meg, you’ve been planning a wedding at some venue across town when the place that matters most to your family is right here.”
Meg picked up her cold latte and set it back down without drinking.
“Give me one week and that patio,” Paige said. “I’ll handle everything.”
“You just got back from three months in Europe.”
“And I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve reorganized my entire garage.” Paige set her espresso down. “This is what I do. Let me do it. Your family handles the food—grilled cheese trays, the salsa Anna keeps talking about, whatever your brother does witheggs. I handle everything else. Setup. Chairs—one option, done. Tables. Flowers. Timing.”
“You’d do that.”
“We’ve been friends forever and you’ve been trying to plan your own wedding for six months with a parking analysis. Yes.” Paige leaned forward. “I’ve been wanting to offer since you got engaged and you never asked.”
Natalie put her hand on Meg’s arm. “You’ve been doing this alone for six months, Meg. You don’t have to.”
Meg looked at the closed laptop. Three pages. Six months. A canceled caterer and seventeen types of chairs and a boyfriend who kept texting driftwood benches.
She thought about the patio. The sunset. Luke saying “our grilled cheese restaurant” and meaning it. Anna on the phone yesterday saying “it’sright there.”
“This Saturday,” Meg said.
Paige didn’t blink. “Saturday works. Sunset’s at five. Ceremony on the beach at four-thirty, reception on the patio after. I’ll walk the space this afternoon.”
“This Saturday,” Meg said again. Then she stopped. “Wait. That’s — that’s five days. I can’t get married in five days. I don’t have a dress. I don’t have an officiant. I haven’t told Margo. I haven’t toldanyone. This is insane. Maybe we should just wait until spring and do it properly and?—”
“Meg.” Natalie’s hand was still on her arm. “You have been doing things ‘properly’ for months. You have three pages of properly. Properly gave you seventeen chair options and a parking analysis and a canceled caterer.” She squeezed once. “Luke doesn’t want properly. He wants you. On Saturday. At the Shack.”
Meg pressed her fingers against her eyes. Her chest was tight and her hands were shaking and she was Meg Walsh and she did not fall apart in coffee shops.
“The officiant,” Paige said calmly, already typing on her phone. “I have three on speed dial. Saturday’s covered. The dress—we’re going shopping after this. Flowers—eucalyptus and white roses, simple, I know a florist from the Como job. Music—does Luke have a playlist?”
“He has twelve playlists,” Meg said, her voice cracking at the edges. “He makes playlists for everything. There’s one called ‘Meg’s Cooking.’”
“Then you’re covered.” Paige looked up from her phone. “Your one job on Saturday is to show up and marry Luke. I handle the rest.”
“I’m not good at only having one job.”
“Practice,” Natalie said, smiling.
Meg took a breath. Then another. She picked up her phone and walked outside.
Forest Avenue in the November sun. She called Luke. Two rings.
“Hey,” he said. The ocean behind him. Luke was always near water.
