Page 25 of My Best French Wedding

“Let’s not make it more than it is.” Corinne sipped her detoxifying lemon water. She’d turned down Hildy’s offer of wine on the grounds that she planned to drink her body weight in rosé tonight.

That was the theme of this evening’s welcome party: Roses and Rosé. Hildy had been planning to repaint her nails a delicate pink, but the bloody red she was currently rocking seemed more fitting under the circumstances. The goal was warrior queen, not bubblegum princess. Which Corinne would understand if she hadn’t had all the stress pounded out of her.

“Walter being here is not a small thing,” Hildy argued. “It’s an outrage. How dare he pull a stunt like that?”

Corinne rubbed more lotion into the back of her hand. “A wedding reporter chasing the biggest wedding of the year? Shocking. Or were you talking about his other reason for being here?”

“It happens over and over,” Hildy insisted, ignoring the dig about Maude. “Walter appearing out of nowhere.” She made an exploding gesture with her fingers. “Poof!”

“One, I’m pretty sure the ‘poofing’ is mutual. And two, if you’re waiting for me to say that you and Walter are connected by some deep and mysterious invisible string, don’t hold your breath.”

Annoyingly, Hildy had been angling for a crumb or two of acknowledgment, though she would have settled for pity.There he goes, all up in your business again. What a conniving snake!

“I’m talking about repeating patterns. Gradually working out the kinks in your karma until you evolve to a higher form.” She hesitated. “Maybe Walter and I are trapped in some kind of loop, until we fix our mess.”

Corinne slow-blinked, like she was giving it serious thought.

“You see what I’m talking about?”

“I see plenty.” Corinne peeled off the eye mask she’d been using as a headband, fluffing the hair at her crown. “Like how hard it is for some people to tell the difference between destiny and dysfunction. They have so many of the same letters.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I know.” She took another sip of her water before setting the glass aside. “I’ve been thinking.”

“You mean like right now, during our conversation?”

Corinne pretended not to hear. “Maybe it’s for the best, Walter being here.”

Hildy eyed her warily. “How do you figure?”

“Because you know how important this story is for us. We have tonailthe Prescott wedding. There’s no other option.” She waited for Hildy’s nod of acknowledgment. “This week is going to be a pressure cooker.”

“The Rolls-Royce of pressure cookers,” Hildy reminded her, because they weren’t exactly serving time in a penal colony.

“Still,” Corinne carried on, undaunted, “the battle lines aredrawn. We’re on one side, and Walter is over there.” She gestured at the wall. “As someone who’s had a front-row seat for your whole deal with him, I’m thinking this could be the moment you settle things for good. Battle royale. To the victor go the spoils.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. If everything went according to plan, snagging the Prescott wedding would be much more than a onetime circulation boost. A story this big would establishLife, Styledas a player on the main stage, without sacrificing any of their youthful freshness and vitality.

She didn’t know what Walter stood to gain, besides a chance to show off in front of his girlfriend. And a trip to France. Maybe he’d been promised a raise, or at least a bonus, but Hildy had an entire business to run. People were depending on her.

“When you say ‘settle this’ do you mean this assignment or—” Hildy let the question trail off, hoping Corinne would fill in the details.

“Yes,” Corinne answered. “All of the above. Break the chains of the past. Wash that man right out of your hair. Go big or go home.”

Inspirational speeches were not Corinne’s forte, but Hildy appreciated the sentiment. “I have no idea whether you’re manipulating me or being totally sincere, but I kind of like it, so.” She shrugged, accepting the kernel of truth behind the platitudes. It would feel incredible to one-up Walter in a head-to-head competition. That would silence all the lingering doubts (his, Hildy’s, her family’s) about whether she’d earned her place.

She tucked her hair behind her ears in the universal sign forshit’s about to get real. “Walter’s ass is mine.”

“Or you could just say ‘go team,’” Corinne pointed out. “Keep it nice and simple.”

The site of that evening’s welcome event was a walled garden adjacent to the hotel. The roses and rosé were as advertised: blush-pinkbottles glistening with condensation arrayed on a long line of tables, with a twelve-foot botanical wall as a backdrop. Neon letters (F & R) added a little zing to the floral tapestry.

Hildy did a slow 360, pretending to admire the décor. No sign of Walter yet. Getting here first should have been a victory, but it almost felt too easy. Did he know something she didn’t? Was there another, better angle she should be pursuing?

She reminded herself to smile as she mingled with the other guests, making a game of guessing the relatives from the acquaintances. Observing other people’s domestic circles was something of a hobby for Hildy. More than one of her therapists had pointed out that this likely had to do with the unconventional structure of her own family.

Fair enough; everyone had issues, and it made sense that this would be one of hers. Hildy was also aware that she had a habit of collecting surrogate mothers (not including Corinne, who was as maternal as a vegetable peeler). There was no great mystery behind the inspiration for the magazine’s Found Family feature. The important thing was that it happened to be a work of genius that regularly made people cry on public transportation. That was the definition of resourcefulness in Hildy’s book: leveraging your personal baggage to make great content.