Page 93 of My Best French Wedding

“Weddings are like the Fourth of July in my family. You don’t even want to know how many step-aunts I’ve had.”

He wasn’t sure whether she expected him to be impressed or scandalized, so Walter waited in silence for his next cue.

“It’s funny they met when they were our age,” Hildy mused.

When the bride and groom found out Walter and Hildy were high school students working on a project together, there was a lot of oohing and awwing, hands to mouths and hearts in their eyes. It turned out Carlee had played Cinderella in their school’s production ofInto the Woodswhile Carlton understudied the role of her prince. They’d lost touch after graduation, until Carlee started a rotation on the oncology ward where Carlton was undergoing cancer treatments. And now they were married—though obviously Walter and Hildy would add more detail to the finished story.

“Can we go in there?” Hildy was pointing across the street at an old-fashioned diner. “And have coffee and pie like gritty old newshounds?”

“It’s kind of late—”

“You can have decaf, grandma.” She grabbed him by the hand, not letting go until they were inside. The contact was so distracting, Walter forgot to worry about his bank balance, though hewasn’t in a position to casually eat out, unless the restaurant featured a drive-thru and a dollar menu.

“Look, they have Dutch apple!” Hildy bounced with excitement. “We’re definitely getting that.”

He tried to surreptitiously check the price, but there wasn’t a sign.

“My treat,” she announced. Walter wondered if he’d given himself away, but Hildy was studying the laminated menu she’d plucked from the abandoned hostess stand.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not,” she interrupted. “My uncle gave me an emergency twenty for the trip, but I didn’t need it because you showed me the secret laundry detergent stash. So basically we’re even.” Hildy closed her menu. “You’re giving me the look.”

“What look?”

“Like my head is a fortune cookie and you’re trying to read what’s written inside.” She tapped her temple. “It’s your interview face. You’re going to be really good at this, you know. I can tell.”

“Yeah?” His smile was at least half relief that she hadn’t called him out for staring at her. It would be easier for both of them if he kept his crush under wraps.

The waitress led them to a booth with squeaky vinyl seats, dropping silverware and two menus on the table.

“Real food or straight to dessert?” Hildy’s lips pursed as she studied him. “If you can’t decide, go with the grilled cheese. Not too little, but not too much. He’ll have a grilled cheese,” she informed their waitress, after a split-second glance at Walter. “And fries. Coffee for me, and a slice of that pie. With two forks. Please,” Hildy added, flashing her dimples.

Their server seemed to appreciate the decisiveness, collecting their menus with a nod of respect.

“I’ll eat it if you don’t want it,” Hildy assured Walter when they were alone.

“Grilled cheese sounds good.”

“I know. It’s a classic for a reason.”

As with most things about Hildy, he found her bossiness charming. It reminded him of his mother’s cat, poking you with a velvet paw until you remembered you were wasting valuable time that could be spent scratching under his chin.

“To us,” Hildy said, raising her glass of ice water in a toast. “We make a good team, don’t you think?”

He inclined his head in agreement, and also to hide his blush. “We still might not win. The judges are probably looking for coverage of serious issues. Future Pulitzer stuff. As opposed to a feel-good story.”

“Then we’ll just have to change their minds.” She unrolled her silverware, arranging it next to her plate. “So no one will be able to underestimate us ever again.”

“Plus we’d have twenty-five thousand dollars for college,” Walter reminded her. “And priority admission to J-school.”

“That too.” She folded her hands on the table. “So what are you thinking?”

“For college?”

“Our story.”

Right. They were here to work. Walter thought fast. “We could be inside Carlton’s body, like we’re describing what’s happening in his cells, and then it cuts to stark statistics about how many people get sick every year, the likelihood of recovery—all that.”