Half an hour ago…
With all eyes on me, The Plough and Harrow suddenly becomes too crowded. Soon, my fellow patrons will break the last barrier and come over to congratulate me in person, and I don’t want to have to lie to even more people. Plus, being the center of attention makes me uncomfortable, especially when I owe it to a fake engagement to my ex, who I still haven’t gotten over and who’s dating someone else. I have to get out of this pub—fast.
I invent an excuse, say goodbye to my friends, and extricate my way through the crowd. I swear, a football player would have an easier time crossing the field to run a touchdown. The “well-wishers” do everything in their power not to let me out. They grab my hands in congratulatory handshakes, give me shoulder pats, and the bolder ones go for a hug or a kiss on the cheek. Every human interaction, short of actually being tackled to the floor of the pub, I have to endure. But I finally reach the door.
The chilly night air is refreshing. I take a few deep breaths and try to keep my cool. Now that I’m out, the prospect of actually going home and having to face Kate is not promising either. I stare at the mostly empty street and consider my options.
For the first time, I’m grateful Bluewater Springs doesn’t have an airport; otherwise, the temptation to hop on a plane and just disappear would’ve been too great.
“Hey, Chuck,” someone calls from across the street. I look up and see Dean, one of the factory workers, coming my way with a big smile on his face. He stops next to me and grabs my hand. “Just heard the news. Congratulations!”
The gossip is spreading faster than I imagined. I have to go home and warn Kate. She’s going to kill me this time, I know it. She’ll do it tonight in my sleep.
“Thanks, Dean,” I say. He looks like he’s going to start asking questions about the engagement, so I hastily change the subject. “But hey, shouldn’t I be the one congratulating you? Mom told me your team won the production excellence award again. What is it now, three years in a row?”
“Yeah,” Dean says proudly, “and we’re excited to get started on the Chucokate. The new machines should arrive just after Christmas.”
I blink. “New machines?”
“Yeah, we’re updating lines three and four. Didn’t Mr. Rose tell you? Your parents made a huge investment, but no product has ever had such a high projected positive response as the Chucokate. Everyone is counting on it being a huge success.”
My head is reeling with this news, but I manage a response. “Kate and I only got home last night. We didn’t have time to catch up yet.” It’s my turn for a shoulder pat. “I’ll let you go inside, Dean, I don’t want you to freeze off a few steps away from a well-deserved pint. And if I don’t see you again before the twenty-fifth, Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Chuck, and give a hug to Kate from me as well.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure thing.”
Despite the sobering low temperatures, I’m still too fresh on the beers to drive home. I hurry away from the pub on foot before any more well-wishers accost me, headed toward Bluewater Bridge. The Warrens live only a ten-minute walk from the pub, so it isn’t too far.
As I force myself to walk double-time to keep warm, I reflect on this new unwelcome discovery about the family business. How much did the upgraded machinery cost? What will happen when Kate and I come clean about our breakup? Is it too late—or even possible—to hire actors to be brand ambassadors in our place?
And, most important of all: if this Chucokate campaign crashes and burns because of Kate and me… What happens to the company?
Our parents are too business savvy to bet it all on a single project. But it’s clear they’ve spent a lot—like, a lot—on the Chucokate. If the Chucokate fails, the company’s financial outlook is probably going to change from stellar to grim.
By the time I walk up the Warrens’ driveway, my head isn’t any clearer—in fact, it’s more muddled than ever—and my hands and feet are about to fall off from the cold. I can’t wait to warm them by the fireplace. I hop up the front steps and hurry inside, not bothering to ring the bell since the Warrens’ door is always open to me. Besides, they have the most obnoxious-sounding buzzer with a million bells chiming for a good twenty seconds. Gives me a headache every time I hear it.
I head straight for the living room without taking off my jacket in the hall—I’m still too shivery. Then stop dead when I spot Kate standing in the center of the room, wearing a grotesque white gown with an enormous skirt and even bigger sleeves. She looks like a cream puff. Surrounding her, scattered on the two couches and assorted armchairs, are Mom, Lillian, Nana Fern, Kate’s aunt Muriel and her cousin Gretchen, and Josiane Masson—who is covertly taking pictures of the bride-to-be while pretending to check her phone.
Kate’s head snaps up, and our gazes meet. And I read murder in her big brown eyes.
I’m already scared, but when Kate’s mom starts shrieking like a banshee, my heart jumps into my throat.
“Chuck, noooooo! Turn away!” Lillian screams, jumping to her feet and flapping her arms at me. “What are you doing home so early? You can’t see the bride in her wedding dress, it’s bad luck!”
Wait, the white monstrosity is supposed to be Kate’s wedding dress? If the situation weren’t so tragic, I’d laugh. But one peek at her still-furious stare informs me I’d better not.
I’m actually glad as Lillian crosses the room and starts unceremoniously herding me back the way I came. “Out, out. Join your dad and Mick in the barn. We’ll be ready for dinner in an hour.”
Cast out into the icy night, I trudge through the garden, following the narrow shoveled path that leads to the barn. The slim passage, carved in about twenty to twenty-five inches of puffy snow, is slippery as hell in the dark. Still, I hurry over the ice. What’s happening inside the house is so scary, I’d risk breaking my neck to escape faster.
Warmth engulfs me once again as I enter Mick’s man cave. A huge fire is burning in the fireplace, casting a dancing orange light on the barn’s occupants. Dad and Mick are seated on the brown leather couches, staring at the gigantic flat screen mounted on the wall. An NBA game is playing—Charlotte vs Cleveland—and Dad and Mick are intently watching while Pops Teddy lounges by the fire.
“Hi,” I greet everyone.
“Hey,” Dad says. “Come to watch the game? It just started.”
“No, they threw me out of the house. The women are plotting secret wedding stuff and declared me persona non grata.”
“Tell us about it,” Mick says with a laugh. “We’ve been exiled all day.”
The dads don’t look like they’ve been suffering too much, but I don’t call them out on it. Instead, I head toward the fireplace where Pops Teddy is reading a book.
“Ah, Chuck.” He places a bookmark between the pages and closes the book on his lap. “Big day.”
“You have no idea, Pops.” I slowly remove my outer layers and then warm my hands by the fire. The snow begins melting off my boots and forms little puddles on the hardwood floor.
“So, you’re about to marry my Kate.”
Wow, can’t I go more than three minutes before someone mentions her? And is Pops going to give me the speech? I was expecting it from Mick, not him.
“Looks like that,” I say warily.
“I only have two pieces of advice for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Never lie to your wife.”
“Okay,” I agree. That seems pretty straightforward. “And the other one?”
With a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, Pops Teddy says, “Always keep her happy between the sheets.” He winks, then goes back to his book.
And if my cheeks weren’t already flushed red from the time I’ve spent outside, they’d be flaring up now.
I cough awkwardly and stare at the clock mounted on the wall. Another fifty minutes before we’re allowed back in the main house for dinner.
Why is it that today, as soon as I enter a room, I can’t wait to get out again?