Chapter 6 December 21
It’s Saturday, Amelia is finished teaching for the year, and Christmas is only four days away. Which means the wedding is tomorrow, so this is about as down to the wire a bride trying on her wedding dress for the first time can get.
We’re in Everhart’s—whose owner, Rosalie, is also the town’s seamstress.
Only in small towns can you buy a wedding dress at the same place you get athletic socks, camping gear, and seasonal decorations.
Plus, why not toss in novelty items like a “Lordy, Lordy, He’s Forty!
” gag gift and a box of superhero-themed bandages while you’re at it?
Everhart’s Dry Goods is a one-stop shop that has served Harmony Hills for more than fifty years.
Amelia’s trying on her long-sleeved white dress with a scoop neck and floor-length hemline. There’s lace overlay, endless rows and swirls of crystal beading, and a thin gold belt cinching the waist. The dress shimmers with every swish of her hips.
“Can I pull this off?” Amelia asks, glancing in the mirror. “It’s a lot .”
“Every day of the week, anywhere you want to go.” She’s stunning.
Amelia smiles, then lets out her breath. Suddenly, the belt pops open at the back.
“Here, I’ll get it.” But the belt won’t latch. There’s about half an inch of space between the two ends. I look around on the floor. “Did a piece come off?”
“No, I stopped sucking in.” She rests her hands on her stomach, and I see it now—the tiny round of her belly, straining against the shimmering fabric, like she’s had a too-big meal.
A mix of emotions moves through me when I see her hands on her stomach: joy, sadness, envy, longing.
None of which I plan to unpack at the moment.
“You don’t need the belt,” I say. “The dress is perfect without it.”
“And more comfortable.” Amelia gently taps her palms against her stomach. Then she catches my eye in the mirror.
“Hey, in case I haven’t said it already, I’m really glad you’re here.
I wasn’t sure you…” She shakes her head and tears up, which makes me tear up.
I’ve developed a tough outer crust from years in medicine, but when someone I love cries, it’s game over.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get here in time. ”
For a moment, I say nothing. Then I’m annoyed, a quip about how demanding my job is on the tip of my tongue to alleviate the guilt I’m reluctant to admit.
Yet I know what’s behind her comment and that she’s justified in making it.
I left Harmony Hills without another thought, and haven’t been great at showing up for my family in the years since.
Regular communication hasn’t been my strong suit.
“Mila, I wouldn’t miss this for anything .
” Clearing my throat, I reach for a nearby box of tissues, which sits atop a shelf with silver and gold Christmas ornaments, a few bottles of bug spray left over from summertime, and a couple freeze-dried bags of astronaut ice cream sporting a thin layer of dust. Who knows how long those have been there.
“Okay, no more waterworks.” I hand her a tissue. I use another to dab at my eyes. “You need to get out of that dress and write vows, and I have a maid of honour to-do list to tackle.”
I glance at the list, written on actual paper because Amelia is old school like that. There are twelve items, enumerated to represent the importance of each. I quickly scan the list.
1. Dress!
That one gets crossed out with a flourish of my pen.
2. Rehearsal breakfast—confirm with Season’s Eatings
I start walking, heading towards the diner on the other side of town, eyes on the list.
3. B?che de Noel cake???
Reading number three, I stop midstride. What do three question marks mean? I reach for my phone in my coat pocket, dialing Amelia as I continue perusing the list.
Pick up candy cane ribbons from —
Voicemail. “Hey, Mila. I have a question about the list. The cake, specifically. There are three question marks, and I don’t understand what—OH!
” Something shoves into the back of my thigh, and I drop the list. I twist to get a better look and see it’s the same pig that stole the sugar cookie from my hand last night.
Tinny Christmas carols—“Here Comes Santa Claus,” it sounds like—stream out of a flashing red-and-green-lit collar around the pig’s expansive neck.
Attached to the collar is a leash, held by none other than Liam, Mr. Dimples for Days.
“Libby, I’m so sorry,” he says, reaching down to pick up the fallen list. As he hands it to me, I note that he smells like baking bread and fresh cedar shavings today. Heaven.
“It’s okay,” I reply. Mary snorts, and I glare at her.
“She’s a good girl, but she’s going through some stuff,” he says. My irritation towards Mary Piggins thaws slightly.
“Aren’t we all?” I say, my sigh involuntary. He gives me a curious look. “It’s almost Christmas. The season of stress, right?”
Liam smiles, and my insides go melty, like marshmallows in hot chocolate. There’s a moment of silence between us (why am I holding my breath?) before I break eye contact to look down at the paper in my hand.
“I should probably get back to this.” I hold up the list. “Sister-of-the-bride duties call.”
“Same, though in my case it’s best-friend-of-the-other-bride duties,” he says, then points to the paper in my hand. “How’s the list coming?”
“Not bad. Dress at Everhart’s, check.” I mime a check mark. “Next up is Season’s Eatings. Have to confirm the wedding-day breakfast-slash-rehearsal-party thing.”
“Mind if I walk with you? I’m headed that way, too. I promise to keep Mary on a tight leash.”
“Of course,” I reply, because while I could do without Mary, Liam is an unexpected but pleasant addition to my morning. “What’s on your list?”
“Slice of Life, for starters,” Liam says.
“Ah. I’ve not been yet. My parents rave about it.”
Liam smiles. “If you go, make sure you try the seven-grain sourdough. It’s the best, in my opinion.”
We set off, Mary thankfully walking on Liam’s other side. Then Liam stops abruptly, looks down at my feet, his forehead creasing with concern. “Are you limping?”
I am, in fact, limping. My baby toe that Mary stepped on swelled up like a fat little Vienna sausage, and is now spectacularly purple. I buddy taped it to its neighbour toe, which helps, but it remains tender inside my boot. But I wave away his concern.
“Seriously, you barely need your baby toe. It’s practically a vestigial appendage.”
“Vestigial?” Liam brings his eyebrows together.
“Unnecessary,” I add brightly, to show I’m truly fine. Even if it’s a lie, about the baby toe being unnecessary. In fact, it’s a crucial part of the complex mechanics of the foot, and so quite necessary despite how small and insignificant it may seem.
He nods at this, but his concerned look remains as he glances at the pig and lets out a quiet, “Mary, good grief .”
I smile, because it sounds more like something a grandfather and not a (seriously attractive, adorably earnest) guy would say. “Liam, please don’t give it another thought. Toes heal in no time. This is a professional opinion, so you should trust it.”
“Is it broken?” He doesn’t acknowledge my assurances, looking from my face to my foot and back again.
“No! Of course not.” Oh, it’s broken all right. I’m 99.95 per cent certain. “Just a bruise. Barely even a bruise, really.”
“Phew. Okay, good.” He sets a hand to his forehead. “This pig is a snort-happy calamity.”
This time I laugh out loud. A snort-happy calamity. An apt, colourful description for this creature. “So what’s it like having a pet pig?” I ask, trying not to limp as we walk on.
Mary’s collar continues to play “Here Comes Santa Claus” on a loop. It’s cold though sunny, and the air smells chilled, like snow is on the way. The whole town is eager for the first snowfall, and it’s unusual that it hasn’t arrived yet.
“It’s different, though not unlike having a big dog, I guess? But also, not what I planned. I’m more of a dog… and chickens and goats person.” I glance over at him with an eyebrow raised. Chickens and goats?
“I have a lot of questions,” I say.
“Honestly, me, too.” Liam laughs. “What’s the most pressing one?”
“Maybe, how did you end up with a pet pig if you’re more a chickens and goats person?”
“Well, Mary Piggins was Miss Elsie’s pet—she rescued her. Along with a squirrel, named Frank, and two cats—Sam and Dazey. Beckett found homes for the cats, and Frank is at a local wildlife centre. He’s the star mascot, apparently.”
Liam reaches down and scratches Mary behind one ear. She gives a snort and nuzzles into his hand. “I helped Miss Elsie out, taking Mary for walks and sometimes for weekends at my farm. Being a rescue, Mary has more quirks than average, I think? But I don’t really know—she’s my first pig.”
What’s an “average” potbellied pig like? I wonder.
“Miss Elsie asked me to look after Mary, when the time came. I was happy to do it.”
Dazzling dimples and kindhearted? Who is this guy? “I’m not experienced in ‘pig,’ but it seems Mary adores you.”
“She tries her best,” he says, chuckling. “Except when sugar cookies are involved. Then all bets are off.”
“No sugar cookies today.” I pat both my pockets, proving they are empty. “But maybe it’s me? Like, you know when someone is nervous around dogs, and the dog always seems to know?”
“Are you nervous, Libby?” Liam asks, his tone playful.
I don’t say “Actually, I prefer Elizabeth,” because I find that’s not true in this case—I like how my nickname sounds in Liam’s deep, measured drawl. My melty insides melt some more.
“I’m never nervous.” I hold out one of my hands. “See? Emergency room steady.”
“Impressive,” Liam says, before chuckling lightly when Mary noses my calf from behind, causing me to let out a tiny yip of a scream.