Page 16 of My Best French Wedding

“And leave you to report on this wedding all by yourself? That would be tragic.”

“I think you mean ‘awesome.’”

“You don’t get to edit me, remember? I don’t work for you.”

“Thank God for that.” She steepled her hands, casting a grateful look skyward. “I have more important things to worry about than keeping you in line.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

A server approached, offering them hors d’oeuvres. Waltershook his head like the buzzkill he was, so naturally Hildy had to take one to be contrary.

“How is it?” he asked, when her mouth was full of puff pastry and chili oil and some kind of leaf.

She took her time swallowing before slowly running a finger over the corner of her lips. Stepping closer, she tapped the old-school notebook tucked into the lapel pocket of his suit. “Do your own research.”

His hand closed around her fingers, holding them for a beat before gently removing them from his person. Even after releasing her hand, he maintained eye contact, voice lowered to a confidential rumble. “I’ve doneplenty.”

“Something in your throat?” Hildy held up a finger, and another server glided over with a tray of cocktails.

“I don’t drink when I’m on the clock,” Walter said.

She shrugged, taking a long sip of a beverage that tasted like a more acidic V8. “Yum,” she lied. “Maybe I’ll run the recipe as a sidebar.”

“Really?” His littlehmmof surprise was like a mosquito bite on the back of Hildy’s knee.

“What?”

“It seems to me the real story is the setting.” Walter spoke as if it pained him to have to point out something so obvious. “This property has been in the bride’s family for generations. Her grandparents were married here—”

“And she had her grandmother’s dress remade for today,” Hildy cut in. “Speaking of historical tidbits.”

“They also added a saltwater swimming pond to the grounds, converted the main house to solar energy—”

“Installed a dance floor in the barn.”

“With wooden beams from an old dairy,” Walter hastened to add, before Hildy could say it. “But of course the real cherry on top—”

“Is the plantscaping.” She choked a little on the word, for its intrinsic silliness and because the botanical consultant had ignored Hildy’s request for an interview. So they’d grown their own flowers. It wasn’tthatrevolutionary.

Walter’s eyes lit up, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “You heard about the sunflowers?”

The temptation to bluff was powerful, but Hildy kept her mouth shut.

“No?” he correctly surmised. “Must be because she promised the story to me.”

“Congratulations.” She gave him a dead-eyed smile. “Stop the presses, we have breaking news: Flowers spotted at wedding!”

“It’s not abouquet, Hildy. We’re talking about a room made entirely of sunflowers. Four green, growing walls, a carpet of grass, nothing but sky overhead. Can you imagine the happy couple saying their vows at sunset?”

“It sounds like a glorified arbor,” Hildy lied.

“I guess you’ll find out when you read my story, since that part of the ceremony is private.” He sighed as if he sympathized with her plight. “It really is a piece of living art.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said the tall, spare brunette who had approached from Walter’s other side. She was all angles and monochromatic clothes, with a sleek bob and oversized jewelry. Hildy would have guessed art dealer or spy before gardener.

“Hello, Maude.” Walter turned on the charm, beaming as if he hadn’t already bamboozled a story out of her. Hildy might have thrown up, if her drink hadn’t already burned through her stomach lining.

Maude offered Hildy her hand. “Cousin of the bride.”