Chapter 18
Fact or Fiction?
This lumberyard chick is an Autumn.
Addison
I’m late for work Monday morning because . . . well . . . I didn’t realize how friggin’ long it would take me to drive from
Jamestown to Boulder. It’s not a particularly long drive, it’s just a hell of a lot longer than the five-minute jaunt I’m
used to. I’m definitely going to need to start bringing my computer home in the evenings this winter though because if I get
snowed in and can’t make it down the peak, I need to be able to at least manage my sales calls.
Thankfully, Chuck and Bullhead have the day-to-day stuff at the yard pretty well-handled. I don’t run the forklifts or pull
orders down very often these days. Since my dad started spending more time in Florida, I’ve taken over a lot of what he used
to do in terms of sales and ordering. The only thing he hasn’t fully let me in on is the meetings he’s had with the potential
buyers that came out of nowhere. Apparently they’re from Colorado Springs and do some level of developing, and they offered
him a mountain of money that I can understand looks appealing to him. He’s burned-out and ready to cut ties and leave the
yard behind.
But I’m not.
And it drives me crazy that he keeps telling me he’s saving me from myself. I know my own mind, damn it.
I’m distracted when I pull into the lot and see that all the forklifts are lined up on either side of the building center doors, framing the entrance.
White balloons and paper bells hang from the prongs and I can’t for the life of me figure out what this could be about.
Did I forget about a special event we’re throwing?
We don’t host many events here so who the hell authorized this?
Maybe my dad forgot to tell me something before he flew out?
I glance around the yard to see if any of the guys are outside to ask and it’s a ghost town, so I hightail my ass inside to
see what all the fuss is about.
When I push through the double doors, my jaw drops to the floor when I am greeted by my entire crew of about twenty people
inside the showroom, coffee mugs in hand standing beneath a giant banner that says:
CONGRATULATIONS MRS. FLETCHER
“Oh fuck . . . she’s here!” Bullhead croaks and hits a button on a dusty old boom box where a loud wedding march song crackles
through the shitty speakers. Everyone cheers and holds their mugs up, clapping their hands and offering me their well-wishes.
Chuck appears beside me, gesturing to the crowd and ramping them up even more.
“What is this?” I ask as Chuck walks me back toward the counter where customers pay and I see a large cardboard box and, when
I’m close enough to look inside, I see it’s a giant sheet cake with my face on it.
I cringe and cover my eyes because it’s a horrific picture of me with two middle fingers up and my tongue out.
It was taken by my father years ago. I was an unruly teenager at the time and I’m pretty sure all he did was tell me to smile for the camera.
This photo has lived on the bulletin board of our break room for close to a decade and I’m 90 percent sure they just plunked that dusty photo right on this beautiful white frosted cake.
Chuck puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly to quiet everyone down. “Shut up so I can say a little something.”
Everyone settles down and I feel my cheeks flame red. “What are you doing, Chuck?”
His voice is loud so everyone can hear as he says, “Well, your dad called to tell me the news over the weekend and the guys
and I wanted to show you how happy we are for you, Addie May.” He barks out a dry laugh and everyone raises their mugs in
agreement.
I look around and see that they’ve got balloons and streamers and cheap bridal shower decorations strewn all over the place.
They even set out the potluck table in the break room and there’s four crockpots and casserole dishes and what looks like
a cheese and meat tray all laid out. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Sure we did, darling.” Chuck smiles so big, I can’t see his eyes. “Most of us have seen you grow up around here and this
was the least we could do to celebrate your news. You’re not just your father’s daughter. You’re ours too.”
My eyes start to sting and I lick my lips to stop my chin from trembling. “Thank you.”
“We all pooled our money and got you a little something too.”
“No,” I exclaim, holding my hands out as Bullhead walks up with a giant box wrapped in brown paper. “No gifts. I won’t take
it.”
“Shut up and open your present, damn it,” Bullhead croaks before stepping back.
I sigh heavily and roll my eyes, not liking a single minute of this kind of attention, especially when this was all to fulfill
a stupid trust fund requirement.
Regardless, I rip into the paper and my jaw drops when I see a familiar logo on the box. “Is this?” I look to Chuck and Bullhead and all the other guys who look like they’re positively bursting with excitement.
I drop down to my knees and go nuts ripping off the rest of the paper. “You got me the Challenger Bread Pan?” I squeal as
I grip the box in my hands so hard, I could break through the packaging.
“You’ve only been talking about the damn thing for two years,” Bullhead croaks, taking a sip of his coffee mug.
“You guys!” I shake my head and stare down at the three-hundred-dollar black cast-iron bread pan that I’ve wanted but refused
to ever buy because the price is outrageous and I have a perfectly good pan that makes bread just fine.
But this . . . this feels . . . special. I’m overcome!
I glance up at the mostly middle-aged and senior men all staring at me like I’m their kid opening a bicycle on Christmas morning,
not their boss who signs their paychecks. My face contorts out of nowhere and without a word, I throw myself into Chuck’s
arms, hugging him with every shred of emotion I have swelling inside of me. I bury my face in his chest to hide my tears.
He smells like gasoline and tobacco and it feels like home. He shakes with silent laughter so I pull away, wiping aggressively
at my face.
“You’re all a bunch of assholes,” I snark, thrusting a finger at the lot of them, and they all chuckle back at me. I clear
my throat and nod, staring down at my gift that I can’t wait to test out. “And you’re all getting fresh loaves of bread next
week.” They cheer and I sigh heavily before adding a heartfelt “Thank you.”
“Monroe Lumber belongs to a Monroe . . . or I guess Fletcher now?” Chuck shrugs and puts his arm around me, his face going serious as he looks out at everyone. “And we’re all just real grateful we get to keep calling you boss for the foreseeable future and not some asswipe from Colorado Springs.”
The guys all cheer and I let out a garbled laugh.
“Now get back to work, you slackers,” Chuck shouts, waving his hands out. “We’ll have potluck with the blushing bride at lunchtime.”
Everyone grumbles their replies and disperses, leaving me alone to dab at my eyes and inhale a deep breath. I’ve just about
gathered my thoughts when I spot a tiny blonde woman in the corner of the showroom. Is that my . . .
Mother-in-law?
Johanna Fletcher waves enthusiastically and makes her way over to me with a big smile. “I’ve never seen anyone cry over a
bread pan before.”
“You saw that?” I cringe and sniff loudly, trying to hide the remnants of my emotional outburst.
“What a testament to how loved you are around here.”
I wrinkle my nose and shrug. “Or a testament to how many hints I drop about the things I like.”
“That too maybe.” Johanna laughs, glancing down at the pan. “You know when Steven was alive, I used to use my granddaughter
to drop hints to him about what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday.”
I smile at that. “I’m sure that was effective.”
“Oh gosh yes. Steven would do anything Everly asked of him. All my boys would too.” She laughs and I can’t help but see the
pain in her eyes with her casual discussion of her late husband.
My brows lift. “I enjoyed getting to know Everly in Mexico. She’s so . . . dynamic.”
“As are you, dear,” she says, setting a binder on the counter between us. “Now, I know this is sudden, but if you want to get this wedding planned before Christmas like your father wants, we have no time to waste.”
I force a smile I don’t altogether feel. “You know, if you wanted to just take over and do most of it, I would be totally
okay with that.”
“Well, what about your tastes? Do you have a mood board or a Pinterest board or something I can use for inspiration?”
“A mood board?” I rasp, blinking back my bewilderment. “No. I don’t have a mood board.”
“Well, what do you like?” Johanna asks, propping her elbow on the counter and smiling excitedly at me. “What are your favorite
colors? Favorite flowers? What kind of esthetic do you envision for this special day?”
“Oh gosh . . .” I murmur, wracking my brain because I’ve literally never thought about this in my entire life. I barely even
celebrate my birthday, let alone have an opinion on what I like for a wedding esthetic.
“This is no problem!” Johanna opens her binder and points to the first sheet of paper. “I printed off a little QR code thing
you can scan that takes you to a quiz online that you can fill out and that will help guide all of our decisions. Let me know
when you have it done and I can take it from there. Oh, also, I’ve taken the liberty of setting up some dress fitting appointments.”
My lips part. “Dress fittings?”
“Yes. The bridal stores in town require appointments. Such a pain, but I managed to snag a time at one this Saturday. We need
to move quickly because if they have to order, they’ll need several weeks I’m sure. Do you want me to invite the girls? Or
do you want to let them know yourself?”
“The girls?”
“Cozy, Trista, Dakota, and whoever else you’re close to.”
My brows furrow. “Oh . . . like . . . we all try on dresses?”