Chapter 6 #2
Work is safe. Work has tasks. Work has deliverables. Work has checklists and invoices and no one asking why your ex’s new fiancée is texting you about vow placement like she didn’t once misplace her conscience in Liam’s bed.
“I’d need to talk to my boss,” I say.
“At the nonprofit?”
“Yes.”
“And Bea?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“I couldn’t come for more than a week.”
“That’s all we need.”
Liar.
We are Thorns. We always need more than we admit. We call it refinement.
“When?” I ask.
“Wedding week. The first full week of November. We’d need you by Monday at the latest. Sunday night, if possible. Final walkthrough, welcome dinner, rehearsal, ceremony, brunch.”
“Brunch too?”
“Post-wedding brunch.”
“Of course. Why stop at one public emotional injury when we can add pastries?”
“Daisy.”
“Sorry. That was almost an inside thought.”
Mom sighs. “I know this is difficult.”
“I can manage difficult.”
“That’s what worries me.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
My mother and I are not bad at love. We are bad at letting love arrive without a project attached. She worries by making plans. I avoid worry by becoming useful. Between us, whole rooms get decorated, fed, and emotionally ignored.
“I’ll ask,” I say. “I’m not saying yes yet.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
She does not know. Mothers hear “I’ll think about it” and immediately start mentally washing guest sheets.
“Also,” she says.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”
“I heard ‘also.’ Also is a trapdoor word.”
“There will be a community dinner that week,” Mom powers through. “The high school athletic department is using the vineyard for a small donor and parent event before the fall sports fundraiser. It overlaps with some wedding setup, but we can manage both.”
I stare at the tiny pumpkin on my desk. It stares back with judgmental vegetable confidence.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“If you could help me organize it—” She pauses, then clears her voice. “I’ll pay you for that too.”
“So, you want me for both events?” I ask.
“Yes. I wanted to give you the full picture.”
The full picture is this: Liam and Carla are getting married at my family’s vineyard.
Gloria has escaped into what I hope is a peaceful retirement involving no mothers and unlimited gin.
My mother wants me to come home, be paid well, smile nicely, and arrange the wedding where my betrayal gets centerpieces.
Also, apparently, the high school athletic department will be wandering around the vineyard that week like a bonus subplot with booster checks.
Fall, as a season, has become far too ambitious.
“I’ll call you later,” I say.
“Thank you, darling.”
“I haven’t agreed.”
“I know.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can hear your cheekbones.”
Mom laughs softly, and for one second she is not the vineyard owner or the woman asking too much. She is just my mother, tired and hopeful and probably standing near a window in Winterberry Cove, looking out at the rows she refuses to give up on.
I miss home for half a second.
Then I remember home is a beautiful emotional sinkhole with excellent catering.
“I’ll call later,” I repeat, and hang up before either of us can become tender about it.
Mira sits on the edge of my desk without asking. “Bad?”
“Gloria quit.”
Her eyes widen. “Perfume Gloria?”
“The very one.”
“Wow. I thought she’d outlive capitalism.”
“Same.”
“And they want you home.”
“They offered me money,” I say.
“That’s allowed.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I glance at her.
Mira’s face shifts, and I hate it because kind faces make me honest, and honesty during business hours feels unprofessional.
“I don’t want to go back like this,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Single. Broke. Working two jobs. Organizing my ex-fiancé’s wedding. Wearing boots that sound like tiny bones when I walk.”
“The boots are a concern.”
“Thank you for prioritizing.”
“I’m serious.” Her voice gentles. “Do you think anyone back there is going to look closely enough to see all that?”
“Yes.”
“Then give them something else to look at.”
I blink. “Like a magic trick?”
“Like the fact that you’re competent. Employed. Paid. Needed.”
“Needed is not always the compliment people think it is.”
“No,” Mira agrees. “But paid is.”
I hate when she’s right.
My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s not my mother.
Unknown Number: Ms. Thorn, this is Principal Mary Whitcomb from Winterberry Cove High.
I hope this isn’t too unusual, but your mother gave me your number regarding the upcoming vineyard community dinner/fundraiser.
I understand you may be assisting your family on-site that week.
We’re finalizing details for a small meet-and-greet for our prospective hockey coaches and wondered if we could coordinate with you directly.
I read the message twice.
Then a third time, because apparently I enjoy watching the universe develop plot.
Of course, Mom already assumed I’d say yes.
Of course I am now organizing a wedding, a community dinner, and possibly a fundraiser with no official consent from my body, my bank account, or my increasingly hostile footwear.
Of course there’s a prospective hockey coach.
I stare at the phrase.
Prospective hockey coach.
“Mira,” I say slowly.
“Yes?”
“Do you think it’s too late to become a woman who ignores text messages, eats lunch, and has appropriate boundaries?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I look back at the message.
Winterberry Cove has found a new way to summon me home.
It has money.
It has my mother.
It has my ex and his soon-to-be bride.
And now, apparently, it has hockey.
I should say no.
I should type a professional response explaining that I’m not yet confirmed and will circle back once my schedule allows. I should open the granola bar. I should drink water. I should become the version of myself who treats red flags as warning signs instead of festive décor.
Instead, I unlock my phone.
Because I am Daisy Thorn.
I have a spreadsheet for disasters.
And apparently, I’m available in the dropdown menu.
Maybe while I’m at it, I’ll ask Forrest for some hockey guidance, so I don’t look like an idiot during this dinner.
A bold goal, considering my current brand.