Chapter 28
CHAPTER 28
Last Sail Before the Veil—What a Trip!
D ear Trixie,
Help! I keep having nightmares that my cruise ship wedding will be a total disaster. We’re talking classic bridal mishaps—my dress falling in the ocean, the cake being stolen by seagulls, my soon-to-be husband getting food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail—it’s like my imagination is out to sink my sanity! Please tell me I’m not the only one who has the pre-wedding jitters. How do you deal with the fear of bridal disasters?
Sincerely, Precarious Pipa
Dear Pipa,
You are most definitely not alone. If wedding disasters were an Olympic sport, I’m pretty sure my anxiety could win gold! Let me tell you, the night before I boarded the cruise, I had a vivid dream where the officiant got seasick halfway through the vows and tried to marry us with a snorkel on. Weddings are stressful, and it turns out, our minds are excellent at conjuring up worst-case scenarios.
But here’s the thing—whether it’s an overboard dress or a rogue seagull that’s secretly plotting to take off with your cake, those are just possibilities. The reality is, no matter what happens, at the end of the day you’ll still end up married to the love of your life. That’s what counts. So, here’s what I’ve been doing—whenever I start picturing things going awry, I imagine what’s on the other side of the so-called disaster. The dress might fly in the ocean, but guess what? I bet that makes for the most memorable photo. Seagulls stealing the cake? Hello, hilarious story to tell at every anniversary.
Every hiccup is part of the adventure, and you just have to trust that whatever happens will end up being uniquely, hilariously, wonderfully yours.
XOXO Trixie
Our next stop on our leaf-peeping tour is Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island.
And according to the Seabreeze newsletter, this charming slice of Canada is where history meets whimsy—famed for its red sand beaches, colorful yet adorable Victorian architecture, and, of course, Anne of Green Gables’ charm that practically wafts through the air.
It’s quaint, it’s picturesque, it’s lively, and it’s about to get a whole lot livelier with our little crew stepping ashore—namely Nettie.
The ship docks in Charlottetown with a light jolt, as if a happy neighbor gave us a welcoming prod, and the excitement is already thumping in the air.
I can tell you right now that the view from the deck is worthy of a thousand oil paintings.
Prince Edward Island is awash with soft rolling green lawns and deep blues hidden within its woods, with a hint of something charming and quaint that encapsulates it all.
Today, Bess, Nettie, and I decided to dive headfirst into one of the island’s most beloved tales of all— Anne of Green Gables . The story is practically a love letter to Prince Edward Island and one that I adored reading while growing up.
What’s not to love about a feisty orphan with a penchant for mischief who gets to run around in a cozy paradise that most of us could only dream of?
Lucy Maud Montgomery published her first Anne book in 1908, and since then, it’s become as much a part of PEI as the red soil beneath our feet.
And as much as I love a bit of literary history, I’m a sucker for a dress-up party—and apparently, so is everyone else on this ship. One of the excursions offered is a dress-for-Anne-of-Green-Gables-success picnic that takes place on the very grounds that inspired the books in the first place. I’m so excited I can hardly wait.
“I look like a strawberry-flavored disaster,” Nettie huffs, fidgeting with the exaggerated puffy sleeves on her bright red, gingham dress. She’s topped it off with a hat covered in fake flowers, making her look like Anne Shirley’s chaotic cousin who spent too much time in a garden. And she so would be.
“It’s called dedication to the theme at hand, Nettie,” I say, adjusting my own straw hat, which only has one tragically sagging daisy pinned to it. “Besides, you wear that shade of gingham better than anyone I know.”
The kind folks who are putting together this lush yet jubilant affair have an entire wardrobe for us to choose from as we dress ourselves in the best turn-of-the-century style.
Bess holds out her arms and looks down at her costume. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in this even if it was the late eighteen hundreds,” Bess adds with her voice as dry as dust.
She’s sporting a dress that looks suspiciously more Victorian widow than orphan with a vivid imagination, but she fits right in with our ragtag, runaway train of a mischievous society of orphans. But I have to give it to her, the woman knows how to accessorize. That brooch on her collar could double as a weapon if Stanton Troublefield gets too close. It’s a glittery peacock whose cobalt plumes remind me of Ransom Courtland Baxter’s eyes .
Ransom is busy at a training seminar but said he’d catch up with us at some point.
A sigh escapes me. Just a couple more days and that man will officially be mine all mine.
“We’re losing her again.” Bess waves a hand over my eyes.
“I can’t help it,” I say, catching one last look at myself in the mirror they have set up here under the dressing room tent. “My life is about to change forever. And just like Anne, I have a feeling I’m in for one heck of an adventure.”
We exit the tent and step out into the Anne of Green Gables’ picnic party right here at the Avonlea Grounds, which is a grassy green lawn that sits on an expanse just outside the Green Gables Heritage Place, the exact grounds that inspired Lucy’s first novel.
The grass is green, the sky is blue, the wind is a frozen version of itself, and the red, orange, and yellow leaves of autumn are on fire all around us. This is truly an autumn dream within a dream.
Not only are there a plethora of people here today—every last one of us has donned a costume and a wig with red braids—and thankfully, there are enough wrought iron tables and chairs set out to accommodate us all.
To the right, there’s a buffet with a high tea theme, and the three of us waste no time in boot-scooting in that direction.
Have food will travel, even in the icy fall breeze while wearing a skirt that was pieced together with a thousand patches of wayward fabric. I’ll admit, this getup is rather growing on me. And if I don’t come up with a wedding dress to wear fast, I might just have to buy this funky frock off the good people throwing this shindig.
But I push all thoughts of a wedding dress out of my mind. In truth, I’m just planning on running down to the Queen’s Mall tonight or tomorrow and picking out anything in my size. I’m not locked in on finding the perfect dress.
I’ve already found the perfect man. What more could I ask for?
“Holy cannoli,” Bess muses as we come upon the scrumptious spread. “I think the ship has finally been bested in the culinary department.”
“At least when it comes to tea parties,” I add .
The buffet is a pure vision of high tea splendor. Silver-tiered platters brimming with delicate finger sandwiches abound—cucumber and cream cheese, smoked salmon with a hint of dill, and egg salad with just the right touch of mustard—tempt the eye and the palate.
My stomach is already growling, and I certainly didn’t skimp during first or second breakfast. Beside those delicious little treats sit rows of freshly baked scones, golden and crumbly, with clotted cream and jewel-like raspberry preserves glistening in little porcelain bowls just waiting for me to abuse them to my delight.
I see a few savory tarts, too, filled with caramelized onions, mushrooms, and a sprinkling of herbs. There are dozens upon dozens of mini quiches—some with spinach and feta, others with smoky bacon and Gruyere—and they give the spread a heartier feel.
The dessert buffet is set up right next to where the true indulgence lies. Miles and miles of lemon curd tartlets with buttery crusts, dainty éclairs filled with smooth vanilla cream, and shortbread cookies dusted with powdered sugar lie in wait. In the center of the dessert buffet, there’s a large tray of petits fours with layers of sponge cake, jam, and marzipan, and each one is a tiny masterpiece.
And, of course, it wouldn’t be high tea without refreshing beverages. Porcelain teapots with delicate floral patterns are lined up in a row. Upon closer inspection, they’re each steaming and labeled with classic Earl Grey, others with chamomile, peppermint, and there’s even a fragrant rose hip blend that I am definitely going to try.
A few crystal pitchers of iced tea are set out, their insides lined with lemon slices, and there’s even fresh-squeezed lemonade to add a refreshing option for those who need a cool sip under the sun.
“Let’s not waste time,” Nettie says, grabbing a plate, and Bess and I do the same. “We know why we’re really here, and it isn’t to wear fake braids.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But it’s a good cover.”
And in a sea of people dressed in similar garb, each vying to out-Anne the others, I’m starting to think there just might be a secret award for the most elaborate fake braids.
Just as we plow through half of the savory treats, we look up to see a blonde hurricane headed in this direction—Neelie Holiday.
Her version of Anne has more rhinestones than Avonlea ever dreamed of. Her hat is a touch too chic, and her braids have clearly been crafted by a professional stylist. She looks like Anne if Anne had taken a detour into haute couture.
“Well, well, well,” I mutter. “If it isn’t Prince Edward Island’s own Anne of Sparkly Gables.”
“Careful now, Trixie,” Bess says. “Neelie has rhinestone claws, and she’s not afraid to use them.”
Nettie clucks her tongue as we watch her move. “The girl has style, sophistication, and the attention of every stud here. I want to be her.”
“She’s sleeping with Stanton,” I say, lackluster.
“On second thought”—Nettie lifts a hand—“my gray hair and wrinkles have been serving me well. Last night I met a one-eyed pirate who wanted to have his way with me.”
Bess scoffs. “You were three sheets to the wind. That man with the pirate patch was the statue of Barnacle Bill that sits in the atrium. You bumped into him and then accused him of trying to undress you.”
Nettie sighs at the thought. “A girl can dream.”
I look up once again, and to my surprise, Neelie is heading straight for us.
“Hello, ladies.” She gives an awkward curtsey, and when she rises, I can see her high heels are studded with rhinestones, too. And knowing that she’s sleeping with Stanton in order to gain access to his credit card, for her sake I hope those are real diamonds on her feet.
If you’re going to slum with a scum, you may as well go for the gold—or in this case, diamonds.
“ Trixie .” She gives a forlorn smile as she says my name. “Can we talk?” she asks with her voice quieter than her usual perky tone.
“Sure,” I say .
I don’t see a single thing that can go wrong with this.
No sooner do I take a step forward than a wild wind picks up. In the clouds, a river of miniature stars soon takes shape into the most obnoxious ghost of them all.
Merritt Garrett swoops over to the buffet and screams with delight. She wastes no time in ravaging her way through the table, and within seconds all heck breaks loose.