19. Millie
CHAPTER 19
Millie
“If Ella Barnhoff gets cold feet, then I’m next in line for that groom.” Elodie refuses to sit down, captivated by the nuptials unfolding in front of us. “The groomsmen are so dreamy, too. Do you think any of them are single?”
She holds up her phone, zooming in on the five men lined up by the altar.
“I don’t see any rings,” she squeals, filling in my silence with her excitement.
I sigh, pulling grass from the dirt beside me as I try to distract myself from paying any attention to this circus dressed up as a celebration of love. It’s been the talk of the town for weeks, locals have coined it The Barnhoff Wedding, erasing the groom’s last name as if he’s not even a part of it at all. Everything has been about Ella and her semi-famous golf pro father. I hate to think how much it has all cost, but I’m sure it’s barely made a dent in Everett Barnhoff’s bank account.
Across the creek, mismatched wooden chairs are adorned in lavish organza bows, arranged in long rows, separated by a gravel aisle scattered with soft pink rose petals. Guests are filtering in, slowly taking their seats as the groom nervously bobs from one foot to the other under a 10-foot floral archway.
Chatter filters across the grounds as the clop of hooves melt into the melody of a harp. The guests rise from their seats as an ornate cart pulls up by the aisle entrance. Mr Barnhoff steps out of the cabin, extending a proud hand to his daughter who seems to be lost under a marshmallow of tulle and satin. A sheer, lace-trimmed veil is draped over her face as thick blonde curls roll over her shoulders towards the small of her back.
I can’t deny that she looks beautiful. Ridiculous, but beautiful.
Elodie pants, holding back her squeals as she climbs on top of the picnic table to get a better view. “Mills, get up here! I can see the whole thing. Ella looks stunning, and Barnhoff is giving DILF.”
A chorus of oohs and aahs continue from the guests as the bride moves down the aisle towards the man waiting for her.
I clock the groom, his eyes filling with tears as he takes in his bride and offers Everett a strong handshake. He crumbles when Ella stands in front of him, letting the crowd see his vulnerability in the face of the woman he loves.
Cameras flash as videographers run the perimeter, trying to get the perfect shot. There’s an entire row of seats dedicated to the press.
I wonder at the authenticity of it all.
All of these people here, the money spent, the time planning for this show. All with the best intentions and hopes for the future. Nobody goes into a marriage thinking they are going to get divorced, it’s a promise to forever… but that’s rarely how it ends.
“I’ve never seen somebody look so miserable at a wedding,” Elodie prods, interrupting the runaway train of thoughts. She jumps down from the bench, flopping down on the ground beside me.
“Technically, we’re not at the wedding,” I point out. “I never did receive my wax stamped invitation in the post.”
“Special guests,” Elodie shrugs, throwing an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into a hug. “I don’t know how you can’t just love seeing two people in love.”
I snort a laugh, but don’t offer any words in return.
“I’ve still got some time,” she continues, counting out the months between now and October on her fingers. “I’ll make a hopeless romantic of you yet.”
“Good luck with that,” I reply.
“Come on,” she drags out the words, pushing against my arm playfully. “You seriously don’t want to fall in love someday?”
“I’d kill to believe in that kind of love,” I confess with an honesty even I wasn’t expecting. “I’ve just never seen it work out that way.”
Elodie straightens a dark tartan sash across my chest, pulling it taught and fastening the edges with a thistle brooch. The Barnhoff’s have insisted on honouring the groom’s Scottish heritage, throwing an excessive amount of tartan at almost every corner of the venue.
I look myself up and down in the mirror, taking in the person staring back at me. I look different somehow. There’s a golden tint to my cheeks, the result of hours spent outside over the past few weeks. It’s proof that I’m changing a little each day that I’m here, even if some days I feel like I’m right back in the starting blocks.
“Let’s go, Mills.” Elodie claps her hands gesturing towards the door. “You can get back to being a die-hard overthinker after dinner service.”
I roll my eyes, following her out through the staff house towards the kitchen door of the restaurant.
It’s my first shift in the restaurant, a true baptism of fire, working the most high stakes dinner service of the season. I’m trying to fake it til I make it, but I’m certain I look as shit scared as I feel.
The restaurant manager, Bella, is speaking in a hushed tone as Chef Raphael throws his hands around, making no attempt to silence his disgruntled thoughts.
“You know this happen too much, Isabella.” He slams a fist on the steel counter. “I spend all day on lamb. Now overcooked, taste like mutton. Fast food, not fine dine.”
Bella grabs his wrists, pulling him closer to her as she stabs a finger into his chest. I don’t catch her words, but I can’t imagine they are any less pointed than his.
“You tell Barnhoff be quiet, no more speech.” Chef Raphael pulls a knife from the magnet on the wall, chopping fresh cilantro with speed and precision as he lays down his demands. “Tell him, or I leave, and wedding eats slop. ”
Bella sighs, throwing a middle finger in Chef Raph’s direction before returning to the dining room with a plastered-on smile.
We’re paired off based on two factors: people who have served before, and people like me, who wouldn’t know what foie gras was if it hit them in the face.
I’ve somehow drawn the shortest straw in the batch and wound up stuck with Brett Stevens.
I haven’t spent much time with him outside of the occasional run in at the staff house kitchen, but I’ve heard enough about him from the other girls to know this pairing is unfortunate.
He snorts, looking me up and down, as I fumble with my apron ties at my waist. He has some nerve looking at me like I’m the worst thing to happen to his day, when he walks around in public with a haircut that looks like someone has dumped a bowl of instant noodles on his head.
Holding out a large brown tray across his arms, he nods towards the pass where Parker is ladling up piping hot bowls of soup.
“Grab the bowls, put them on the tray,” he snarls. “And don’t bother spilling any.”
I follow his instructions, kicking myself for not biting back at his demands.
As we make our way into the dining room, I rack my brain trying to remember which shoulder I should pass the bowls over.
Left or right? Left or right?
I opt for the right, and continue moving round the circular table, trying to dodge flailing, half-drunken arms as I go.
“Left,” Brett scorns. “Service is always from the left.”
He continues muttering insults under his breath, leaving me feeling suitably chastised by the time I make it to the final couple on the table. I grab the last two bowls, placing the first in front of a woman with greying red waves, before turning my attention to the man next to her.
My body tenses, the air sucked straight out of my lungs as my eyes land on the likeness of a man I’ve spent the best part of my adult life trying to forget.
My father.
Heat sears through my skin as shock renders me paralyzed, my fingers molded to the ceramic of the bowl. I take in his rusted brown beard and thick head of chestnut hair. Soup runs down the inner sleeve of my white button down, scalding my arms as it follows its rushed path. My hands shake but my feet are planted where they are.
I notice the differences, he’s taller and stockier, with a distinct Scottish accent. My father was short, born and bred in Rowenbridge with the classic Saskatchewan twang. Those things should make it make sense for me, but my brain can’t help but notice the similarities. The way his nose crooks just so, and his eyes hold that distinctive blue-grey that I could never forget. Panic wraps around my brain like poison ivy, squeezing the air out of my lungs until I’m gasping for it.
The dining room moves around me in indistinct smears, a kaleidoscope of imposing, blurry images.
Five things you can see, Millie. Tell me five things you can see.
I try to focus on something, anything else. But I’m seeing double as the man rises to hover over me, the second version of him looking even more like my father .
His brow furrows with gentle concern.
“Are you alright there, lass?” He extends a hand towards my elbow. I flinch at the contact. Pulling back, I drop the empty bowl onto Brett’s tray and stumble towards the kitchen.
“Can’t breathe.” I gasp. “Air… I need air.”
I burst through the swing door, picking up speed as I try to recenter my dizzied vision, my sight set on the back exit.
“Whoa, lady!” Parker shouts, as he feels the full force of my weight against his shoulder as I barge past. “You ever heard of the no running in the kitchen rule?”
“Clearly not!” Chef Raphael shouts. “You stay out of my kitchen, dumb girl!”
I burst out into the early evening, hoping the cool rain will soothe the searing pain clawing at my heart.
Instead, I run straight into the barricade of a rock-hard chest and the very last person I want to see.