Right about now, the Saturday-at-eleven Zumba class Holly sometimes attended was probably merengue marching and shimmying to their heart’s delight. There wouldn’t be any shimmying for her this morning, thanks to a wedding meeting with Amanda, Amanda’s mom, and their professional wedding coordinator.
Holly crossed her arms and rested her hip against a pew while watching the bride and mother of the bride trail their coordinator around the sanctuary of Trinity Church.
Mitzi, the woman they’d hired to orchestrate the big day, looked every inch as serious as her name was not. In a sleek gray suit, with earrings as big as doorknobs and an auburn hairstyle a First Lady would have envied, she gave off a chic and able impression. Somewhere in her mid-fifties, Mitzi’s body bore the ruthlessly thin, muscled stamp of someone who pounded the asphalt every morning in a pair of Nike Airs.
Mitzi had never before toured the church. Since arriving thirty minutes ago, she’d spent a good deal of time whisking her tape measure in and out and looking vaguely displeased. Which had Holly, here on Trinity’s behalf, fighting back a case of defensiveness.
Trinity Church possessed a tremendous amount of charm, but there was no hiding the fact that the building was old. It had been constructed out of stone in 1890 by Germans who’d brought with them their motherland’s excellent taste in church architecture. The building boasted a soaring steeple and arched front doors crafted of heavy oak. Inside, rectangular stained-glass windows marked the side walls and an understated altar stood on a dais three steps above the level of the pews.
Holly experienced a rush of fondness and respect every time she entered the place. She’d grown up here. God spoke to her here. Even though the median age of the membership at Trinity probably hovered at ninety, it had never occurred to Holly to switch congregations. Where would she go? That big new box of a church with the thumping music and a bustling marriage mart otherwise known as a singles ministry? Oh my, no. Jumping ship at this point would feel like high treason.
A year ago, sweet Violetta Mae Gaskins had retired as Trinity’s longtime wedding coordinator and personally asked Holly to take over her duties. Holly had immediately assured her that she would. The truth? She enjoyed her role. It satisfied something within her, to help arrange other people’s happy endings. It made no difference whether those people were real, here at Trinity, or fictional within the pages of her novels.
So far, Holly had presided over six weddings as the church’s representative in all things nuptial. A few of the brides (those on tighter budgets or planning more intimate weddings) hadn’t brought in professional coordinators. In those cases, the bride, Holly, and sometimes the mother of the bride had managed the big day themselves.
None of the prior weddings had been nearly as ambitious as Amanda’s would be, however. This wedding, scheduled to take place in just twenty-one days, was destined to test Holly’s skills. It had already begun to test her patience.
Mitzi launched into an animated monologue about floral arrangements.
If Mattel ever decided to roll out a Yellow Rose of Texas Barbie, Amanda could serve as a blueprint. Her long and highlighted blonde hair always looked shampoo-commercial worthy. She wore leather boots and a print dress beneath a fitted jean jacket.
Amanda Warren had been born with extraordinarily good taste. At one week of age, she’d probably begun selecting her own smocked onesies and coordinating baby caps. Goodness knows, Amanda had sailed through adolescence without an awkward stage. She’d been named Fraternity Sweetheart and Homecoming Queen at SMU before returning to Martinsburg to start her own interior design business.
In a life of excellent decisions, Amanda’s best by far was her choice of groom. Tall, strapping, ginger-haired Ben Hunt was outgoing, warm, quick to laugh, and genuinely interested in everyone he met.
Holly picked a tuft of lint off her ivory cable knit sweater. She and Amanda were the same age and their parents had been members here at Trinity in the same era. She and Amanda had been pushed together since toddlerhood with the expectation that they’d play together in a mannerly fashion and become bosom friends.
They’d certainly played together in a mannerly fashion. In fact, there’d never been a cross word between them. Yet, they’d never become bosom friends. They lacked that mysterious link that leads to confidences and transparent affection. To wit, Amanda had selected ten bridesmaids and a house party of six for her wedding. Holly had not been invited into either camp.
“Sorry for the long wait, Holly.” Amanda approached, the older women in tow.
“No problem. Take as long as you like.”
“I think we’re ready to talk through a few things with you.”