18. Chapter 18
Harriet
Kwemby proposed last week, and I’m already deep in wedding planning. Since our story has now been thirty-two years in the making, we’re eager for a short engagement to finally call us husband and wife.
And since we’re aiming for a short engagement, we’re planning at every chance we get, including during Kwemby’s downtime at work.
That’s where I am now. The Tempora Springs diner has the same floor plan as every diner Kwemby has walked into and saved.
Like the rest, it has vinyl booths and four-top tables, and a long counter with chrome-based stools.
Today two of them are occupied, one of which is a man in a trucker hat nursing his coffee with both hands.
I come through that door at eleven on the dot with a folder of printed venue photos tucked under my arm. Eleven is a good time. It’s in between the breakfast and lunch rush.
Kwemby is halfway down the counter when he sees me. He says something to the woman at the register, crosses the floor in six strides, and takes my free hand in his.
“Back booth,” he says, already turning. “Jolene’s on today. She’ll get your coffee.”
Jolene is the Tempora Spring’s version of Merle’s Connie.
“And a piece of pie, if there’s any left from this morning,” I say, wanting something sweet.
He glances back. “There is. I made sure.”
Then he’s through the door marked STAFF ONLY, and I’m sitting at the back booth with my folder.
I’m here to work on wedding plans near Kwemby.
Thankfully, the Tempora Springs diner is only about half an hour from my place, so it’s no big deal.
I also invited my girls to help. This will be our afternoon.
Jolene appears before I’ve finished pulling the venue photos out. She’s older than Kwemby’s Merle’s waitress by a decade. One of the things I love about my future husband is how he keeps the original staff. If they’re valuable to the location, he even gives them raises and listens to their input.
“Coffee?” Jolene asks.
“Yes, please, with cherry pie.”
“Absolutely. I’ll be right back.” She leaves.
I spread my papers across the table. I have six venue and location printouts, a handwritten list of questions I put together last night, a color swatch I pulled from a home décor catalog.
It feels odd to plan a second wedding, but I’m stoked and it’s exactly what I need.
My fiancé is absolutely perfect about it, too.
He gives his opinions but lets me get my top choices.
Somehow, we’re simultaneously a team while he treats me as a queen.
I’m looking at a photo of an outdoor garden space with a stone path and trees sprinkled at the perimeter, when the diner’s glass door swings open and both of my daughters come through it.
Coris is already talking before she’s fully inside. Maren shushes her. Coris ignores this. Their coats hit the bench in a single combined motion as they reach my back booth, and then Maren is sliding in across from me while Coris squeezes in beside her.
“You’ve already started,” Coris says, looking at the papers on the table.
“I’ve been here for two minutes.”
Maren picks up the color swatch. “Is this what we’re working with?”
“It’s a starting point,” I say. “Really any color is an option.”
The door opens again. I look up, expecting to see a stranger coming in for an early lunch, but instead I’m surprised to find it’s Christine. She comes through the door, her coat buttoned to the collar. She walks and then stops at the end of the booth. Her eyes go to the twins first, then to me.
“Hello, Harriet,” she says.
“Hello. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” I sit up straighter.
“She drove me,” Coris says.
“I’ll only keep you a minute. I wanted to say this in person rather than leave it in a message.” I brace myself, unsure where she’s going with this. She’s always been kind to me, but she’s still connected to my ex-husband.
She continues, “I was in that kitchen when Buck made that remark. I heard it the same as you did. I should have said something that night, but I didn’t.” She pauses to take a deep breath. “I was afraid of making it worse for you, but that’s not a good enough reason. I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”
I look at her face. The lines around her eyes. The way she is holding herself at the edge of this booth, not sitting down, not presuming an invitation, only standing there with the apology laid between us.
“Thank you,” I say. “It means a lot to me.”
“You deserve a good life,” she says. “I hope you have it.”
I slide out of the booth and stand up, and she opens her arms at the same moment I step forward. She hugs me with both arms, her grip firm and quick. I hold on for a moment before we both pull back.
She nods once at the twins. Maren gives her a small wave. Coris says, “Thanks for the ride, Aunt Christine. I’ll ride home with Maren.”
“Of course,” Christine says, and she turns and walks across the diner floor and out the door.
I stand there for a second, my hand resting on the back of the booth.
Then I sit back down.
Jolene appears with three coffees on a tray and slides the cherry pie onto the table in front of me. The filling is glossy red, the crust coarse with sugar.
“Hey, ladies, hope it’s okay that I brought you coffee, too.”
Coris and Maren beam. Once Jolene leaves, Coris picks up the color swatch, sets it down, picks up a venue photo, puts it back. Then she claps her hands together once, flat and decisive, and looks across the table. “Okay, do you want to do the colors first, Mom? Everything else builds off that.”
“Yes, agreed,” I say.
We carefully go through the swatches, considering how they would pair with each other.
I could have one color, two, three, or however many I want, but I know I want two.
After a few minutes, I go with teal and cherry red.
Kwemby stops by once I select the colors.
“Wow, I love them, babe. That bold red is a classic, and works well for you considering your love of cherry pies.” He flashes a grin.
“Thank you. The teal really tones it all down, too. It hints at a diner theme, but not as obvious as cerulean or cobalt.”
He kisses the top of my head and then explains that he has to finish payroll.
We carry on with our planning.
The floral catalog is a spiral-bound book Coris pulled from somewhere and brought in a tote bag along with two other catalogs I haven’t asked about. She opens it to a page of oversized arrangements of roses stacked high.
“These,” Coris says. She points at them with her coffee spoon.
“Those are ridiculous,” Maren says.
“No, they’re not. They’re dramatic. Weddings should be dramatic.”
“Mom’s dress should be the drama. Not the flowers. How would anyone eat around those things?”
“The flowers aren’t competing with the dress, they’re accessorizing it.”
I put my finger on the page. “What about something like this?” It’s a picture of a calla lily, captioned with a note about how easily florists can dye the petals compared to other flowers. “We can dye these teal and use red roses.” The proportions are right. The colors are already close to ours.
Coris considers it. “It’s pretty.”
“It won’t block eye contact across the table,” Maren adds.
“Fine,” Coris says. She folds the corner of the page back.
“Good, I’m glad you agree,” I say. I want my children to help provide ideas, but at the end of the day, it’s mine and Kwemby’s wedding, not theirs.
We flip to the next section.
Maren takes my phone and scrolls through the venue photos I’ve saved. She holds it horizontally, zooming in on the garden space I keep returning to. She passes it to Coris without comment.
Coris studies it, tilts the phone. “The light would be good in the afternoon.” She passes it back to me. “What are the other two?”
I pull up the second option, which is a covered patio space attached to a botanical garden. The third is an outdoor amphitheater, which I’m less certain about.
Maren sees the amphitheater one and shakes her head.
“I think the stage would make it awkward.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say.
“The garden,” Coris says, tapping the phone screen where the first venue is still displayed. “It has the right amount of room. Not too formal, not too open.”
I set the phone face-up on the table, the garden photo still showing. “That’s where I keep landing.”
“Then that’s your answer,” Maren says, and she writes something in her notebook.
Coris reaches over and flips back in the catalog to a different page. “What about the arch? We need an arch.”
“I know someone,” Maren says. She pulls her phone out and angles it toward me. “A local carpenter. He built the ceremony arch at my friend Danielle’s wedding in the fall. It was incredible. He does custom pieces.” She pulls up a photo and passes the phone. “This is his arch.”
It’s a wide-frame structure, cedar or something close to it, with clean mitered corners and soft decorative carving. I hand the phone to Coris, who immediately starts asking about dimensions.
“Oh, yes, I quite like that,” I say. Luckily, Kwemby must hear me because he stops at our table.
“Like what, honey?”
I point at the arch and explain what Maren said.
“I like it, too. Are you okay with an outdoor wedding? Unless you wanted an indoor-outdoor setup, where we get married outside and move inside for the reception.”
“No, you’re right. I think this piece would make it an outdoor wedding, and I’m okay with that.”
“Perfect, me too.”
“Great!” Maren says. “I’ll reach out to him this week. I still have his number from when Danielle used him.”
“Get a quote for the arch, a display stand for the ceremony programs, and maybe a small welcome sign,” I say. “I’ll look at what the venue already provides before we confirm everything.”
“On it.”
Coris hands the phone back to Maren and picks up two of the venue photos to compare them side by side, holding them at arm’s length.
She goes quiet for a moment, which with Coris usually means she is either about to say something extremely specific or she has finally run out of opinions. It’s the former.
“You need a cake topper that isn’t a man and a woman in matching formal wear,” she says.
Maren puts her hand over her eyes.
“That is not a concern I have,” I say.
“I’m just saying. Just putting it in the room.”
“I heard,” I say. “It is noted, but not my biggest worry right now. We are moving on.”
For the next hour this goes on. At some point, we start laughing.
I don’t notice exactly when it starts. It just happens with Maren laughing at something Coris said about the cake, Coris objecting to being laughed at, then laughing too.
Through it all, an overwhelming amount of warmth settles over me.
When I was with Buck, Coris and Maren drifted away from me.
Now that they’ve seen the truth, we’re back together and better than ever.
Thank goodness for that. I can’t imagine not having my daughters here helping to plan my wedding.