CnC 5 One Hex of a Wedding (29 page)

“Well, I hate to disappoint you,” I told her, adjusting one of the jars of marmalade, “but I’m just here for a few minutes. A couple more weeks and I’ll be back for the long haul.”

The shop bells rang and I looked up to find a woman in her mid-fifties, wearing black rectangular reading glasses on a chain, headed my way. Her hair was piled on her head in brilliant orange curls, and her blush and lipstick stood out against her overly tanned skin.

“Thank heavens I caught you!” She thrust out her hand.

“I’m Emerald O’Brien. May I help you?”

She ran her eyes over me and shook her head. “No, this won’t do at all. You’ll simply have to go home to change.”

What the hell? “Excuse me? Who are you and what are you talking about?” Diplomacy was overrated.

She stopped short. “I thought you knew I’d be coming. I was sure I called ahead. Oh dear, I probably forgot!” Her laughter cascaded over me, leaving me even more confused. Had I somehow managed to wander into the wrong shop—one that looked like mine but wasn’t? Was Rod Serling just around the corner, waiting to give his opening spiel?

“Again, you are—?” I tried again, letting the question dangle in my voice.

“I’m Ingrid Lindstrom, with the
Chiqetaw Town Crier
. I’ve come to interview you for the article and photo shoot about your upcoming nuptials with your handsome young hunk.” She winked and I suddenly understood.

Ingrid Lindstrom, the gossipmonger from hell. More than once she’d insinuated bizarre things about me, all in an attempt to turn a clever phrase, but the woman couldn’t write her way out of a paper box. Randa and I’d spent many a Saturday morning groaning over the latest installment in Ingrid’s column.

I shook my head. “Thanks, Ingrid, but I’m not interested and I have no idea why you thought I would be.”

Ingrid’s face fell. “But Cathy said you might.”

Cathy? Oh no! Please, oh please, I silently begged, don’t let Ingrid Lindstrom and Cathy Sutton be in cahoots. One media hound was bad enough, but two? Unthinkable. Cathy owed me a big one, and she’d stayed off my case for a while but I had a feeling debts of gratitude ran short with her.

“Well, Cathy was wrong.”

After an awkward pause, Ingrid said, “How’s Mr. Files doing? Has he recovered from the shooting? Rumor has it that your ex-husband left town—”

“My ex had nothing to do with the shooting,” I said shortly. “And Joe is fine.”

“Do the police have any idea of who shot him?” The woman was a pit bull. She wouldn’t let up.

“I can’t make any comments while the investigation is ongoing.” I crossed my arms. Why had she picked today of all days to wander into the shop? Why not yesterday, when I wasn’t around?

“Well, the whole town is interested in your wedding. Are you having a public reception?” Ingrid looked over the top of her glasses at me, as if she expected a personally engraved invitation.

The vision of several hundred bored townsfolk crashing my wedding scared the hell out of me. “No! It’s private. Only friends and family allowed. I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I said, as Maeve entered the shop.

Ingrid gaped at me as I pushed past her and overwhelmed Maeve with a hail of
hellos
and
come right with mes.

At first bewildered, Maeve caught sight of Ingrid and her expression changed. She looped her arm through mine and veered toward the tearoom. Grateful for her quick pick-up, I let out a long sigh.

“Caught you in the nick of time, I see,” Maeve whispered, strolling toward an empty table. The tearoom usually filled up around noon and stayed busy until about one, then business picked up in the late afternoon when shoppers were on their way home.

“Saved by the bell … the shop bells,” I whispered back. As we settled at the table, I began to breathe a bit easier. “Thank you. I thought it was bad with Cathy, but Ingrid is dumber than a fence post.”

Maeve grinned. “My dear, you haven’t yet met some of my relatives, have you? Ah well, how are you this fine morning? And what are you doing at the shop? I thought you were taking a break before your wedding.”

I buried my face in my hands. “I think I’m just going to just ask White Deer to marry us in the backyard, nekkid under the full moon.”

“What’s going on?” Maeve asked, rising to fetch herself a glass of iced limeade and a lemon bar.

Cinnamon had chosen a decidedly citrus theme for the day’s goodies. “Lemonade Days” was chalked on the menu board, and almost everything for sale had something to do with the sunshine flavor. Lemon gazpacho, lemon bars, limeade, lemon-lime tea. I was relieved to see that she’d wisely included raspberry sparkling water and chocolate peanut butter chip cookies for those whose tastes prefer sweet instead of tart.

I poured myself a glass of sparkling water and chose a tuna on rye sandwich. My shop was one of the few places where I could eat fish. Randa had a life-threatening allergy, and having seafood in the house could be dangerous, so I only ate it when I was out at a restaurant. Even then, I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth before kissing her.

Once we were back at the table, I filled Maeve in on everything that had happened, starting with the crystal necklace and ending with the lack of a dress.

“I’m supposed to go shopping today but I’m overwhelmed. By now, all the dresses look the same to me.” I sipped my drink.

Maeve gave me a soft smile. “All weddings are stressful, but you seem to be under assault.” Her eyes lit up. “I know! Let me play faerie godmother. Go home and get your necklace and corset, then come over to my house.”

I cocked my head to the side. “You wouldn’t happen to have a dress for that corset, would you?”

She broke into a grin. “I might at that. My mother was about your size, and I have her dress. She wore it when she and my father were married on a faerie mound. I’ve kept it all these years—my sister didn’t want anything to do with it since it wasn’t the latest fashion, and I certainly couldn’t wear it at my own wedding. I’m quite a bit taller and broader in the shoulders than Mother was. But I think it might fit you. If so, I’d like to see it used by someone truly in love, rather than let it molder away in my heirloom trunk.”

A wedding dress worn on a faerie mound in Ireland? Couldn’t ask for anything much more magical than that. And I trusted Maeve not to offer me something hideous—she had, after all, given me her mother’s crystal ball.

“Maeve, you’re a lifesaver. How about one-fifteen? Will that work?”

She nodded and glanced at her watch. “And now, I must be about my shopping. I’ve just finished shearing my llamas and I need a new part for my spinning wheel. I think this may be my last season with the creatures, though. I’m thinking of opening up a little herb shop. I’d sell plants in the spring and fall, as well as a variety of dried products during the rest of the year. Also, hand-woven wreaths and holiday boughs during Christmas.”

“Running a shop is hard work,” I said, thinking of how many hours I usually put in at the Chintz ’n China.

“Oh, I know. I’d limit my shop hours to three or four days a week, so it wouldn’t be overtaxing. I’ve money enough not to worry about turning a wide profit. It just sounds like fun.”

We agreed to meet at her house at one-thirty and she left with a quick TTFN and a wave. I bussed our dishes, then relieved Cinnamon at the counter for an hour or so, to give her time to restock the shelves. Thankfully, Ingrid was nowhere in sight. By twelve-thirty, the shelves were stocked and dusted, and I handed the reins back to Cinnamon. I brushed my teeth, then gathered my purse and keys. The scent of tea and spice and pastries spiraled up to fill my lungs and I longed to be back at work, following my simple routine that made me so happy.

 

 

MAEVE LIVED NEAR the southern border of Chiqetaw. She’d put hundreds of hours into landscaping her land, and her gardens burgeoned into an array of brilliantly colored plots. But there was something else, besides the roses and hydrangeas and rhododendrons that gave such life to the land here.

It was as if Maeve had tapped into the perfect place to nurture her spirit. She had the magic touch, every plant thrived here, and even the rock garden seemed to hum with life. Somehow, she’d forged a connection with the land that ran as deep as the tree roots. A sovereign bond existed between the soil and the woman, and the verdant foliage springing forth from the land stood as silent testimony to her dedication.

As I parked next to her modest pickup and slipped out from the driver’s seat, the sharp tang of freshly mowed grass hit my nose and I breathed deep, letting the smell soothe my senses. Maeve’s garden smelled
green
.

She met me at the front door. A strikingly tall woman, she would have been called “handsome” a hundred years ago. She had changed out of her linen pantsuit into a pair of tidy jeans, a button-down short-sleeved striped shirt, and a pair of gardening gloves.

“I was just finishing up with the nasturtiums. Come in.”

I’d been to visit several times, but the custom-renovated rambler never ceased to amaze me, with its loft-high ceilings and multiple skylights that let through the brilliant blue of the afternoon sky. Maeve’s decor tended toward minimalist Scandinavian. The first time I entered her living room, I’d expected to find old walnut antiques and lace curtains, but instead, found light birch furniture free of frills or carving, and sheer panels covering sleek blinds. The floors were hardwood, not a speck of carpeting entered her house, although each room contained a Persian rug.

I glanced at her dining table and saw a large white box sitting on it. She saw me looking at it and nodded.

“Come. Let me see your necklace while you examine the dress. If you like it, try it on for size.”

I handed her the necklace and approached the box. It was old, but obviously well-cared for. I would expect nothing less from Maeve. I hesitantly reached out and touched the bow, then slowly pulled the ribbon away. At first I’d been excited about the possibility of wearing a wedding dress that had history to it. Now, I felt a sort of reverence.

“Maeve, do you think your mother would mind a stranger wearing her dress?” I asked as I lifted the top off the box.

“Not at all. Mother was a lot like me, and since she entrusted her gown to me, she obviously trusted my judgment.” She held up the string of crystals. “You said these were made in Ireland?”

“Yes, though they ended up in Jamaica.”

As she turned away, still holding the necklace, I carefully unfolded the acid-free paper in which the gown had been stored. A wash of ivory satin met my gaze, a sparkle of light flickered in the corner of my eye. Slowly, making certain my hands were clean, I lifted the gown from the box, gasping as it fell open to reveal its full beauty.

A vision in lace and satin, the dress was formfitting, with a low sweetheart-cut neckline. The ruched bodice had lace inserts across the waist and down the sides, framing the breasts, while pearl buttons fastened the dress in back. The sleeves were mildly poofy at the shoulder, tapering into points that would cover the top of the hand. The back of the skirt flowed into a rounded train that trailed a good yard behind the hemline.

No visible stains or tears marred the gown, and I found myself entranced, hoping with all my might that it would fit me. “Oh, Maeve, this is so beautiful Are you sure you want me trying it on? I just love it.”

Maeve bustled over to me. She had placed my necklace into a vase. I couldn’t see what else was in there, but right now my focus was on the vision in satin before me. “Of course I want you to try it on. You may use the guest room. There’s a mirror in there. Let me help you; I don’t think you’ll be able to fasten those buttons by yourself.”

She escorted me into the bedroom. I pulled my corset—the original one—out of my tote bag. “I hate to ask this, but can you help me lace this up?”

Maeve laughed. “Oh, dear. I remember the days when we were expected to wear girdles as a matter of course. My mother used to get so mad at me because I’d run off to school before she could make sure I had my proper foundation garments on.”

I grinned at her. “My Nanna didn’t believe in corsets or girdles. She said they restricted the rib cage.” I slipped out of my skirt and top, suddenly wondering if I was making Maeve uncomfortable, but she just smiled with her usual nonplussed demeanor. “I have to take my bra off for this,” I warned her.

“My dear, I am over sixty years old. I am a woman. Every day of my life, I see my own breasts. I doubt seeing yours will be much of a shock. Now, let’s get you cinched into this thing.”

Laughing, I slipped out of my bra and fit the corset around my waist. Maeve stood behind me and cinched the ribbons snug, but not so tight I couldn’t breathe. I bent over and shuffled my boobs into place, and then arched my back. Unlike my five-hundred-dollar fiasco from the bridal shop, this corset actually fit. Of course, I’d paid good money to have it custom designed from a store in Seattle.

Maeve held up her mother’s dress, unfastening the pearl buttons one by one. “My mother commissioned this from a seamstress in Dublin. The lace is Carrickmacross lace, which originated in Italy but developed a distinctive Irish flavor as the lace weavers adapted it. The buttons are mother-of-pearl.”

I rested my fingers on the material, shaking my head. “It’s incredible. I can feel the love that went into this, and there’s something else.” I raised my head. “A wildness … ?”

She nodded, smiling. “You felt it, then. Faerie energy. I have pictures from my parents’ wedding. The barrow was ringed by mushrooms and wildflowers—all natural. My mother’s family has a long history with the Sidhe and she laid down the law with my father. They would marry on the mounds, or not at all.”

“Wasn’t that rather unusual?”

“Oh yes,” Maeve said. “The priest was scandalized but my mother’s family was so well-placed that the wedding proceeded without a hitch. That morning, Mother walked out by the mounds alone, her last day as a single woman. She told me, when I was a little girl and again when I was grown, that she heard a faint music playing from below her feet, but saw nothing. When they were married later that day, a doe followed by a buck raced past.”