7. Walter
Walter
ONE WEEK BEFORE THE PRESCOTT-SCHAFER WEDDING
TAMNIèS, France—The roads grew increasingly narrow after they exited the highway, carrying them deeper into the countryside until they turned onto a paved track that wound around a steep hill. Perched at the top was a picturesque village with a commanding view of the surrounding fields and forests.
“The main hotel is over there.” Maude pointed at an entryway draped in wisteria, beyond which Walter glimpsed a sparkling infinity pool.
“That’s the restaurant,” she added, indicating a building on the other side of the clay tennis courts that must have predated the hotel by several centuries.
“A lot of the houses on the main square are actually guest cottages. Basically this whole town is part of the hotel complex, except for the church. And the cemetery.”
Walter assumed it would set the wrong tone for a resort to have its own graveyard. Definitely not in keeping with the overall vibe of French country charm.
He climbed from the car, arching his back in a long-overdue stretch. The air was warm and fragrant. Overflowing flower boxes adorned the windowsills, attracting bees that buzzed lazily in the honeyed light. It was hard to remember a world of airports and toll roads and deadlines.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, too exhausted to come up with a better word.
Maude gave a distracted hmm, sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Obviously it’s not the main attraction.” She glanced at his hands, as if he might be taking notes. “Shall we go in and get you settled?”
Walter started in the direction of the trunk, but Maude waved him off. “They’ll bring your luggage.”
Ah. His middle-class roots were showing. He followed Maude down a covered walkway lined with potted trees. The door to the hotel swung open before they reached it. Walter expected a uniformed doorman, but it was the bride herself who stormed outside.
“Maude!” She held both hands out in front of her, like a flight attendant having a tantrum mid-safety demo. “What is going on?”
Walter shifted slightly, feigning a sudden interest in the canopy of tree branches overhead. There came a point in every wedding when family tensions spilled over. No one wanted a reporter to witness those scenes, so he’d gotten good at being invisible when the occasion demanded.
“Calm down, Fee. What’s the problem?” Maude reached for her sister as if to squeeze her shoulder, but Fiona jerked away.
“You can’t just show up here with him.” A manicured hand flicked in Walter’s direction. He blinked in surprise. Apparently he wasn’t an innocent bystander on this one.
“Why not?” Maude sounded faintly amused by her sister’s outburst, in what Walter suspected to be a habitual older sibling attitude.
“Because he wrote about our cousin’s wedding,” Fiona replied, as if it should have been obvious. “What’s next, you’re going to tell me to wear her dress? Hire the same band? Maybe we should copy her menu too?”
A cool breeze danced across the back of Walter’s neck, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. And yet the leaves on the trees didn’t so much as rustle.
“I already hired someone to do the wedding coverage,” Fiona was saying, all but stomping her foot. “By myself. Because it’s my wedding.”
Slowly, Walter turned around.
“Walter,” Hildy said, in a voice so cool it would have frosted glass. Which was ironic, considering her sleeveless yellow dress looked like liquid sunshine. Her bare shoulders were already bronzed.
“Hildy,” he replied. Adrenaline burned off the jet lag in an instant.
She turned her back on him with the regal disdain of a cat, watching the Prescott sisters.
“I’m not stepping on your toes,” Maude chided, grabbing Fiona’s hands. “He’s here for me, Fee.”
Had he imagined the sharp intake of breath from Hildy’s direction?
“You’re dating?” Fiona’s gaze swung from Maude to Walter. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well,” Maude started to say, but whatever explanation or excuse she planned to offer was cut short by the arrival of an older man with white-streaked hair.
“A date? Let’s hope this one speaks English.” He laughed at his own joke, chucking Maude under the chin.
“Daddy,” Fiona protested, leaping to her sister’s defense as if they hadn’t been butting heads thirty seconds ago.
Mr. Prescott sighed. “So sensitive.” He extended a hand to Walter. “I didn’t catch your last name?”
“Burns.”
“Don’t know it.”
“He’s going to write about the castle,” Maude said, before her father could ask to see Walter’s family tree.
“What’s this about a castle?” Hildy looked from Fiona to Maude, skipping over Walter as if he didn’t exist.
“It was hidden in the forest,” Maude began, with the practiced air of someone who had told this story a hundred times. “The trees grew up around it until everyone forgot it was there. I’ve been overseeing the restoration of the grounds. It’s something of a passion project.”
Hildy nodded as if Maude was speaking her language. Walter guessed she must be thinking of Life, Styled as her castle.
“Maude named it Chateau Fiona, because I’m going to be the first one ever to get married there!” Fiona’s expression fell. “Only Maude made me promise not to tell anyone so it wouldn’t spoil the big reveal, even though she gets to spill to whoever she wants.”
“I only told Walter,” Maude protested.
If he hadn’t been watching so closely, Walter might have missed Hildy’s eye twitch.
“If there’s one thing he loves, it’s a castle.” Someone who didn’t know her might have believed Hildy was making polite conversation, but Walter recognized the sound of an incoming grenade. “I bet he’s just bouncing with excitement.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied.