Page 239 of You've Got Hate Mail
Fluffy got out of the house and decided she needed to join the festivities, so she crossed the fields to saunter down the aisle and splay herself out on Mike’s feet as they were beginning their vows.
Which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t allergic.
But Heath’s right—Mike’s a great guy, and he took it all in stride, and Caro assured me as I rescued the cat—and the sneezing groom—that she loves personality in her special events.
So they’re married now.
The happy couple’s families and celebrity friends are mingling and indulging in appetizers passed around by a small army of our local friends who’ve been sworn to secrecy while various musicians who are here take turns serenading the bride and groom.
And most everyone’s happy and relaxed and seeming to enjoy themselves.
“How’re you doing?” I ask Mabel as I cross paths with her on my way to refill my appetizer tray to make another round with the guests. She’s leaning against one corner of the stone banquet hall building, watching.
“I’m still alive,” she says dryly.
“If it helps, I don’t think Mike knows you had to go breathe into a paper bag after you ran into him this morning,” I tell her.
And that’s not an exaggeration.
I did actually have to get her a paper bag.
And Ten saw the whole thing, which only made it worse for poor Mabel.
Whatever he did to her, he did itbad.
She grimaces. “I cannot believe I said that to him.”
Because I love Mabel, I’m refusing to even acknowledge in my mind what she said when she finally came face-to-face with Mike this weekend. “Given everything else, I think he understands.”
“I should go help,” she says.
“Nope. You get the day off. You’ve doneplenty.”
“Agreed,” Heath says behind me. As it turns out, that pink hair dye was permanent. I helped him dye it back to something close to its normal brown earlier this week. “Both of you, in fact.Everything’s good here. Go kick your feet up. Watch from the roof or something.”
He steals my empty tray and plants a kiss on my head.
“You should,” Mabel agrees, nodding to me.
“No, I like to work.”
“Cricket.You have done enough.”
I grin.
It’s been like this for the past three days, ever since I came in from the fields, dragging Winona with me, to make her repeat to Mabel what she told me when I showed up for a lesson in tasting grapes to see if it’s time to harvest them yet.
And it was for the earliest variety of grapes, so we’ve now harvested the first of our fields.
Ourfields.
Our fields with our grapes that will make the first wine to be produced by Makepeace Cellars in over a dozen years, though we’ll be rebranding before we sell it.
Winona’s retiring.
Retiringretiring.
With the extra yields she’s gotten with our grapes since Dean passed, she’s been able to save up faster than expected, and she’s in discussions with her dad about the best way to put their winery up for sale.
