Chapter 5 Gracie
Seven Weeks Before the Wedding
So who do we need to hex?” are the first words out of my best friend’s mouth when I let myself into her apartment and collapse on the transient Marketplace couch I suspect has cushioned half of all the butts in Providence.
It’s been two days since my run-in with Jude and Henry, and almost nothing could have tempted me to leave my home when I’m half expecting an eviction notice and a roll of trash bags to show up on my stoop—except Sofia’s dad’s empanadas.
“No one,” I answer her firmly, not in the mood for a candle wax burn or a tarot card reading that guarantees my future suffering.
Sofia and I went through a witchy phase at RISD, the art school we attended for college, but while my own belief in magic was crushed beneath the weight of adulting, hers remains intact.
My muscles relax as I take in the familiar decor—half candles and crystals, half organized business owner.
On top of moonlighting as my wedding photographer, Sofia also runs an arts community where creatives rent studio space.
“Anyway, aren’t there repercussions for hexing people?” I ask. “Like seven years bad luck?”
Sofia comes back from the kitchen with a plate piled high with flaky pastries I know are stuffed with slow-cooked pork in cinnamon-laced tomato sauce. My mouth waters. Mr. Morales doesn’t make them often, but when he does, he knows to make enough leftovers.
“See! I knew I could bring back the witch in you,” Sofia says delightedly, setting the plate down on her coffee table.
“But no, seven years bad luck is the mirror thing. What you’re referring to is the Law of Threefold—whatever energy you put into the universe gets returned to you three times over. ”
“And you’re willing to risk getting the threefold shaft by hexing people for me?”
“The Threefold Shaft sounds like every erotica book I want to read,” she replies, folding her petite frame to sit cross-legged on the couch next to me so that her knee is digging into my hip.
I snort as we simultaneously grab empanadas. My first bite of warm, tender pastry feels like an explosion of nostalgia in my mouth. I close my eyes and I’m back in the Morales kitchen—my favorite place on earth besides Larkwood.
When I was growing up, Sofia’s house felt far more like home than the two houses my parents used to shuttle me between like an inconvenient house guest. After school, I’d soak in the love and comfort of people who would load my plate with second helpings and fuss over me like I mattered.
I would watch Sofia’s dad twirl Mrs. Morales in the kitchen despite her rolling eyes, and ache for the kind of everlasting love and stability they had.
Even now, they’re the reason I still believe Happily Ever Afters exist.
The inner corners of my eyes prick, and I know I’m seconds away from falling apart again. Sofia rests her head on my shoulder, her dark curls tickling my cheek. “Tell me what’s going on, Gracie. And don’t leave anything out.”
I blink away the sting in my eyes. “Well, the long story short is that I’m about to spend my every last penny on a billboard that has the words ASS WIPE printed over Jude Larkwood’s forehead.”
At her raised eyebrows, I sigh and launch into my tale of woe.
Once I’ve updated her on everything that’s happened, Sofia’s delicately tattooed hand comes up to cover her mouth, brushing her small silver septum ring.
“Gracie, that is just… so much. Like, the motherload of shitty luck, especially after Agatha’s passing.
But listen.” She grabs my empanada-free hand, squeezing tight.
“Once the dust settles and you get a plan in place, I think it might be for the best.”
“For the best?” I repeat. “In what realm of possibilities is this not the worst-case, apocalyptic scenario for me?
Sofia winces but goes on. “I’m not saying that this doesn’t suck in a completely monumental way.
But it’s been three years,” she says, leaving the past unspoken.
Three years since Calvin left you. Three years since your business imploded and you ran away from the world.
“I know you love Larkwood, but I don’t think it’s healthy for you anymore. ”
When I struggle to get words out past my hurt feelings, she quickly goes on.
“I mean, I think everyone has the right to float around in long nightgowns and lick their wounds in an enchanted cottage after something like that but…” She sighs.
“Maybe it’s time to leave the cottage-core life behind and try your hand at Grace & Veil again.
You know I’d make room at KILN for you.”
Throughout this entire speech, my spine has gotten stiffer and stiffer. At the name of my failed business, it could support a concrete dock.
“So, you’re saying I shouldn’t even fight this?” I ask. “And just reopen a business that’ll cost me another mountain of money I don’t have?”
Sofia’s lips press together as her hand leaves mine. “There are always startup costs to a new business.”
I shake my head, suddenly exhausted. “I couldn’t take that risk again even if I wanted to. No bank on the planet would give me a loan right now. At this point, I doubt they’d even lend me a hand if I fell flat on my face in their lobby.”
“Okay, but what about Randy?” she demands, pulling out the big guns.
Something pinches in my chest. Named for the host of Say Yes to the Dress, my middle school obsession, my Randy is a bedazzled keepsake box, stuffed with sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and broken dreams. Thinking of it now is like a swift kick to my inner child.
“I still sew!” I insist. “I sewed my dress for Agatha’s funeral.”
“That’s great,” Sofia allows. “And when was the last time you made anything before that?”
“I made that custom bunting for my sister’s bachelorette party, remember?”
Sofia gives me a flat look. “Sewing the words SAME DICK FOREVER onto little triangles for your scary stepsister doesn’t count.”
I make an exasperated sound. “I know you’re trying to be supportive, but not every childhood dream is destined to work out, okay? Maybe mine was supposed to be a stepping stone into some actual stability for once in my life.”
Sofia tucks her hair behind her ear with an impatient flick of her hand.
“A stepping stone, my ass. I think all the bullshit Calvin used to say about getting a ‘real job’ finally sank its claws in. I think you were on the cusp of making a name for your brand, and then the breakup destroyed your confidence.”
“Calvin wasn’t wrong, Sof. Being able to pay my student loans on time and more than the bare minimum on my credit cards… it’s been a game changer. I just need to get back on my feet, and I want to do it at Larkwood.”
“But, Gracie,” she says slowly, “how on earth do you plan on fighting this? If Agatha’s grandson wants to sell the estate, what can you do to stop him?”
I shift on my seat and grab my empanada again to avoid eye contact, mumbling, “Well, I do kind of have a plan.”
I’m about to lift the pastry to my mouth when it’s snatched away. “Nuh-uh,” Sofia scolds. “No treats till you spill this so-called plan.”
I groan, forcing myself to turn toward her. “You’re not going to like it.”
Her eyebrows lower. “On a scale of one to this-calls-for-an-intervention?”
“Probably closer to the range of ‘this-calls-for-a-lobotomy,’ ” I warn.
Sofia closes her eyes and takes a deep centering breath. With an empanada in each hand at her knees, she looks like a meditation leader with excellent taste in snacks. When she opens her eyes again, she’s ready. “Okay, hit me.”
With no comforting pastry to clutch, I pull down the faded baby quilt Sofia’s abuela made from the back of the couch and just rip off the Band-Aid. “Calvin called me.”
“WHAT?” Sofia’s voice is so loud in the empty apartment that I almost throw the blanket over her head to muffle the noise.
“I haven’t even told you the bad part yet!”
“Oh my God, okay.” She stuffs the empanada into her mouth and takes an enormous bite, which I’m assuming is supposed to serve as a scream-preventative.
Before I lose my nerve or she has a chance to swallow, I say, “He’s getting married, having a baby, and he asked me to plan the wedding at Larkwood.”
In an instant, the scream-preventative bite turns into a life-threatening air blockage as Sofia starts choking. “Sofia, oh my God!” I say, scrambling to my knees on the couch. “I don’t know the Heimlicher!”
But then she starts coughing, her face bright pink. I sit back down and put my hands on her shoulders, needing to know she’s okay. To my surprise, she starts laughing.
“The Heimlicher?” she wheezes. “I think you mean the Heimlich.”
My own face floods with heat. “Stop laughing—you almost died, and you know I misspeak when I’m nervous!”
Mortifying memories of grelpful surface, but I don’t linger on them. Not when Sofia’s mirth quickly fizzles and she says, “What the hell, Gracie? Why did you even pick up his call? He’s the king of vest-wearing, finance-bro douchebags!”
Cheeks still pink, her eyes look ready to shoot lasers at anyone who dares to wear a vest in her presence.
“I know,” I say, too cowardly to admit that I’ve been crying to sad girl breakup ballads every night for the past two weeks.
“I was really angry when he called, too, and at first, I told him absolutely not. But he begged me to reconsider, and then Agatha passed, Jude… happened, and I had this idea for how to save Larkwood.”
“Okay, let’s hear it,” she says grumpily.
“Well, as I’ve established, Jude is trying to ruin my life.
But before I learned his plans for the estate, we kind of…
bonded over Agatha,” I say, deciding not to mention the initial fluttery feelings and attraction he promptly fly-swatted to death with his business card.
“He loved her, but I just don’t think he understands how important Larkwood was to her.
And yes, maybe he happens to be a jaded divorce lawyer,” I go on quickly, ignoring the way her eyes bug at this inconvenient detail, “but I also know he feels guilty about all the vendors he’s screwing over—you included,” I point out.
“He was practically squirming in his loafers when I mentioned everyone who would be devastated by Larkwood closing.”
“Okay, but how exactly does this relate to planning your ex-dickwad’s wedding? Why not just beg him to keep one of the weddings he canceled to prove your point?” she asks.
“Because showing up to a wedding that’s already been planned is just going to a party,” I explain.
“But if I can convince him to let me plan Calvin’s wedding, then I can bring him into the process and have him meet all the vendors who would be impacted.
And who knows. Maybe he’ll even grow a heart along the way. ”
For a moment, she just stares at me, while irrational hope practically beams out of my pores. “Gracie, he’s a divorce lawyer,” she finally says. “Your natural predator.”
“All of my brilliant scheming, and that’s what you decide to focus on?” I demand, taking my empanada back and biting into it.
“Well, yes, since this entire ridiculous plan depends on you convincing a man who literally ends marriages for a living to suddenly see the romantic side of life and keep an estate he doesn’t want because weddings are magical. And that’s if he lets you plan it, period.”
Desperation wells inside me. “You’re forgetting the brilliant part where I guilt him into it!”
Sofia’s features soften. “Okay, Gracie. I know you’re going to try this no matter what I say, so I’ll be in your corner. I promise I won’t even photoshop eye bags and pimples into Calvin’s wedding photos if you pull this off.”
I smile, relief ballooning inside of me. “Well, maybe just one pimple.”
She smiles before her face clouds with concern again. “But if he agrees, how are you going to plan a wedding in less than two months? You usually work with clients for a year or more.”
This conundrum has occurred to me as well. “I’ll manage. It’ll be like finals week, but for like, two months.”
“And what about your mom’s birthday thing? Isn’t that happening around the same time, too?”
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that, but now that she’s mentioned it, yes: the sixtieth birthday extravaganza my family has roped me into planning is also happening at the end of July.
Sofia must see my realization playing out across my face because she says, “Oh no…”
“It’ll be fine!” I insist as my brain already begins prioritizing tasks. “I mean, obviously I’ll need to cut some corners,” I say as my inner perfectionist purses her lips and gives me a severe look, “but I’ll manage.”
Sofia gazes at me with something like pity. “Okay, but doesn’t this seem like the perfect opportunity to say no to them for once?”
“It’s her sixtieth,” I reason. “You know if I don’t help, I’ll be written out of the will.”
“And miss out on all those inflatable lawn ornaments?” she asks dryly. “Say it isn’t so.”
“Sof, please,” I say. “They’re still my family.”
“Gracie, they literally only get in touch when they need something, and you never say no.”
“Well, not all of us grow up with perfect parents like yours. It doesn’t mean I want to cut them off,” I respond, hurt darkening my insides like a bruise.
When we were children, it was impossible not to wish that my own parents were as emotionally available as hers. And even as I got older and realized that was never going to happen, it didn’t stop me from trying to be seen and appreciated by them.
Looking chastened, Sofia blinks several times as her legs cross a little tighter. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know how lucky I am, but they’re far from perfect, you know,” she says in a subdued voice. “They have issues, too.”
Her expression becomes closed off as she looks away from me, and my heartbeat accelerates. “What do you mean?” I ask, going still. “Is everything okay?”
She glances up at me and takes in my expression. “Yeah, it’s fine. Same old, same old,” she assures me, but her smile is tight. “So, what do you think we should watch tonight?”
Well aware she’s changing the subject, I eye her before saying, “Evil Dead?”
She gives me a smile—a real one this time—and relief blooms through me.
“You’re probably the only hopeless romantic in the world who wouldn’t rather watch Bridget Jones’s Diary right now.”
“Gotta have balance,” I say, taking another bite of empanada. “I’m like a chocolate-covered potato chip. Sweet and salty.”
“You are my favorite weirdo, Gracie Holland.”
I lean over and kiss her cheek. “You’re mine, too.”
She smiles, and for the rest of the night, there’s no more talk about my impending career crisis, Jude, or my questionable family dynamics. With Sofia’s tenuous support, I know my next move.
Even if it might just break me.