Keith casts a slight wave at the police officers standing at the entrance, busy in conversation with the reporters parked on the road, trying to gain access.
“Yeah?” Keith engages Brenna as I quietly steel myself for what is to come.
“Yeah. They used to cut down trees here and make furniture out of them!”
“Well, not right here. But you’re right, this building was made using the original mill.” The real Lander’s Mill—some twenty miles north, still within Balsam County—thrived in this area for more than a century before shutting down in the 1980s. The large barnlike structure ahead of us, of weathered pine and factory windows, was constructed from salvaged materials. It was dismantled and transported here as part of a deal between local officials and developers, after the developers bought the land under the defunct business, with the intent to tear down and parcel off estate properties. Local officials fought them for years, deeming it a historical landmark and refusing to approve the necessary zoning paperwork, all while the original buildings fell further into disrepair and were finally condemned.
And then a smart businessman stepped in and offered a solution: If the developers were willing to foot the bill to salvage and help build this main structure, and the town officials were willing to provide a grant to fund the operation of a museum, he would invest in the Lander’s Mill we’re now facing—a piece of history, as well a picturesque event facility. It’s been voted the Best Wedding Venue in the region by Cosmopolitan.
And it’s a place where there are currently too many cars for my anxiety level.
“Stop fidgeting,” Keith mutters, pulling his pickup truck into a spot marked RESERVED.
“Easy for you to say.” I smooth the silky material over my thighs. “Are you positive this is okay?”
“It’s fine,” he assures me, his gaze flashing to my outfit—a flowing, floral maxidress—before sliding from his seat.
I sigh as my toes hit the gravel drive and I hold the door open for Brenna.
She scampers out, the hem of the dress my mom bought her last week, just for this ceremony, swaying like a bell cup around her lithe frame, nothing but excitement oozing from her. “Is Uncle Jack here yet?”
“Probably.” There are a lot of people—some I recognize as local business owners, others are strangers—milling around, throwing curious glances my way. A lot more than I’d have expected for “a quiet, small ceremony.”
I finally spot my mom’s blue Subaru, right next to Lou’s black-and-tan Chevy pickup. My mom had tried insisting that we arrive together as a family, but Keith helped me avoid that mess, knowing I wouldn’t be able to handle the added anxiety that comes with Hildy Wright. And Jack assured me he’d herd her inside so I don’t have to deal with her “helpful” suggestions before the ceremony.
Keith stops beside me, his gaze following mine. “Notice the news vans on the road?”
I spear him with a knowing look. As if I wouldn’t.
“Notice that there aren’t any here?”
“How’d you manage that?”
“It’s a private event, invitation only. I told Polson that this is the only way you’d agree to it. He was okay with it, actually. He wants our local papers writing the story.”
To make sure it reflects well on Balsam, that cynical voice inside my head whispers. “That’s . . . Thanks.”
“It does mean you may have to smile for one or two of them. Maybe even answer a question.”
“Fine.” After The Weekly’s interview, I think I can handle that much.
Brenna tugs on my arm. “Come on! Let’s go!” I pull on the stylish ruby red jacket that I borrowed from Misty—in case the spaghetti straps of this dress felt inappropriate—and brace myself as we head for the heavy wood doors.
We step into the anteroom, which tastefully display artifacts from the original mill while also serving as a welcoming entranceway to the larger event room. The faint waft of cut wood and age still permeates the air.
And a familiar cologne.
I gasp at the sight of stunning aqua blue eyes.
Chapter 20
I hold those eyes for a long moment, before noticing anything else. Like the fact that his face is clean shaven, his jawline even more sharp and masculine than I imagined it to be. He’s obviously been spending some time outside because his skin has a slight glow to it, the kind you get with forgoing sunscreen on a hot spring day. Other than his leg still being in a cast and the thin pink line across his forehead, he looks perfectly normal. Well, more like breathtakingly handsome. The pre-accident Brett.
“Good, I’m glad you made it! You look lovely, dear.” Clarisse Polson’s voice is soft and soothing, her thin hand cool against my sweaty palm as she pounces on me. “A few more minutes until everyone is ready. We’ll have you seated on the dais and . . .” She talks quickly, walking me through the basic steps for the ceremony, not giving me a chance to adjust to the shock of seeing Brett here. “Frank is just chitchatting out front, but I’ll let him know you’re here. We’ll start in a few minutes.”
I do my best to acknowledge her words with a smile and nod, and then my gaze quickly shifts back to the man leaning against his crutches.
What is Brett doing here?
I search out my dear friend and find him darting through the door to the main room rather quickly.
Of course Keith knew Brett would be here.
“. . . and this is what they used to chop the trees,” Brenna says, her childish voice carrying over the low buzz of voices from the other side of the wall as she points out the axe, followed by the two-person saw mounted along the wall above it. “And this is what they used to cut the wood into smaller pieces back in the really olden days. But they used those machines in the picture in the olden days that weren’t really olden. And this is . . .” I think Brenna could rival Clarisse on pouncing speed. She wasted no time, marching up to Brett and—possibly without so much as a hello, knowing her—beginning to walk him through all the displays, regurgitating everything she remembers from her field trip.
Brett patiently hobbles alongside her and lets her babble away, a small genuine smile touching his lips as he gives her his undivided attention. He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit today, the pant leg cut to accommodate his cast, the gold tie against a crisp white shirt a sharp, stylish look.
I can’t peel my eyes off him.
“You have a future historian there.” A deep voice pulls my gaze to my right. The man I saw on television the day Brett addressed media for the first time after the accident stands before me, also in a suit. They really dressed for the occasion.
“Hi, Catherine. I’m Richard, Brett’s father.” For a moment I think he’s going to hug me as his wife did. He doesn’t, but he does seize my hand in both of his, holding it tight. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I manage to get out. He looks so much like Brett, only older, his build smaller.