“Connie who? I don’t know any Connies.”
“Well, I definitely don’t know this Connie, but apparently she’s sewn all the costumes for the school’s drama club. Muriel’s on her way over there now to ask her.”
“And you told her the dress needs major alterations?” I had all but given up on finding the wedding dress after sifting through dozens of generic strapless ball gowns and over-the-top beaded options and was about to settle on a nice but “seen it a thousand times before” option when Agnes discovered a simple but elegant dress with a round neckline and long sleeves, buried deep within a rack. Even my mother approved. The only problem? It’s several sizes too big. A problem that the bridal shop owner promised could easily be fixed with a skilled seamstress. Unfortunately, there is no way hers can get it done in time.
“Yes! Almost word for word.” Mom reads her text message out loud to prove it.
“Okay. Well, if she thinks this Connie woman can do it, then I have to believe she can do it.” I doubt there will be a lot of ?
??asking” involved when poor Connie opens her door to a determined Muriel McGivney.
“You know, we’re putting an awful lot of trust in your neighbor.” Mom slides her reading glasses off. Her brow is pulled with worry. “I hope you’re not disappointed in how this all turns out, Calla.”
My stomach squeezes, that little voice in the back of my mind echoing her thoughts.
Once Jonah and I arrived home from the courthouse, it became a mad dash to get the ball rolling on making decisions. Simon suggested we call Muriel to help us. I agreed, and she arrived not twenty minutes later with an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven coil notebook tucked under her arm. Her bible, she called it—tattered and bent and marred with countless scribbled names and numbers—that would help us with the hows. But first we needed to decide on the when and where and who.
The when was easy. New Year’s Eve. With the holidays, we won’t get the license before the thirtieth and the parents are all leaving on January 2 so our window of opportunity is small.
As for the who, Jonah and I crafted a guest list on the drive to the courthouse. We came up with twenty-five people—more than I’d anticipated.
The where was the biggest challenge. There are only three wedding venues in the area and a few quick phone calls confirmed all were unavailable. Muriel was ready to pencil us into the community center despite my insistence that it lacked character and was too big for twenty-five people. We were resigned to cramming everyone into our house for a reception. And then Muriel was struck with an epiphany—the Ale House. It’s cozy, it has character, and with a bit of elbow grease, she was convinced it could be ideal.
Best of all, it’s close and available.
I had to admit, it wasn’t the worst idea, and it would keep the chaos out of our house, which is already chaotic enough with all the guests.
Mom cautiously suggested we see “this Ale House of yours” before we committed to a wedding reception there.
So we drove over, and Mom spent a half hour walking in circles, pointing at things that would need to be put away or cleaned up—the cluttered bulletin board, the cheap folding tables, the fishing trophies.
Muriel agreed without argument. Shockingly.
My mother’s exact words were, “I can work with this.”
And so it was decided that our reception would take place at the Ale House.
With the biggest decisions nailed down, Muriel began listing all our resource options, both obvious and unconventional, given the tight timeline. Twenty-one-year-old Lacey Burns, who won a photography competition for her candid high school yearbook pictures and happens to be home from college for Christmas break; Michael and Anne Bowering, music teachers who play seven instruments and sing at church every Sunday; Gloria from the Winter Carnival planning community, who has been taking culinary classes in Anchorage for years, and is the best cook Muriel knows.
There wasn’t a question she couldn’t answer or a quandary she couldn’t recommend a solution for.
Muriel was in her element.
And I’ve never valued her more.
A few hours and a dozen phone calls later, we had a photographer, musicians, and our caterer lined up. My mother phoned every florist between Wasilla and Anchorage to survey our options for flowers, and Astrid was throwing cake flavors at me.
It all seems too easy.
Maybe it is. Maybe this is going to be a disaster.
“She’s marrying Jonah. It’s going to be perfect, no matter what happens,” Agnes, always the angel on my shoulder, chirps from the back seat.
Mom seems to absorb that. She turns to meet Agnes’s gaze. “You know what? You’re right. Calla is marrying her sky cowboy—”
“Oh God, Mom!” I cringe through the chorus of laughter.
But she’s right.