“A.k.a. bo-ring.” The response came in a singsong tone.
Hope lifted her chin. “If he is, then I like boring.”
“Face it, Chickadee, you wouldn’t know how to handle a red-blooded male. Wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a real man.” Before Hope could protest, Amity jumped up as if the seat of her metal chair had suddenly turned red-hot. “Yikes! I just remembered I promised Sylvie in the Mad Batter booth I’d drop off a few of my business cards. Since she does nontrad stuff like me, she said she’d hand them out. Back in five.”
Hope had seen Sylvie’s cakes. They were definitely “nontrad.” The wedding cake displayed in the Mad Batter booth today was a perfect example. The multilayer concoction designed for a Christmas wedding sported red-and-white vertical stripes, black flowers, pearls, and . . . two prettily decorated fondant skulls. The words “’Til death us do part” flowed in elegant script across the front.
While Hope thought the cake was more than a little creepy, Amity had squealed and raved. Hope liked to think she grounded Amity and made her fun-loving friend think twice before she jumped into some new venture.
As for Amity, well, listening to her friend’s tales of exploits allowed Hope to live vicariously in a world she would never again embrace.
Ten years ago Hope had ignored common sense and allowed herself to be swept from the safety of the shoreline into rocky waters where she was immediately in over her head.
Amity was wrong. Even ten years ago, Hope had known what to do when she was confronted with a red-blooded male. She’d . . . married him.
She’d been eighteen when she and John Burke had skipped their high-school prom and headed to Boise to elope. She couldn’t even console herself that it had been an impulsive, “hey, let’s get married tonight” kind of thing.
They’d planned it out, getting a license and finding a minister to marry them. The preacher—and she used that term loosely, as the guy had been ordained online—had been in it for the cash.
They’d said their vows, exchanged rings, and been pronounced husband and wife. Then the minister, “Buddy,” had demanded fifty dollars. John had balked, insisting they’d agreed on twenty and he didn’t have the extra thirty.
A cold chill had traveled down her spine, just as it did now, remembering. Hope had been struck by the enormity of what she’d just done. She’d tied her future to someone who didn’t even have enough money to pay the preacher.
Hope was embarrassed to recall how she’d fallen apart and cried like a baby, insisting she’d made a mistake and didn’t want to be married. John had tried to comfort and reassure her, but she’d been inconsolable.
Buddy had taken pity on her. Though he was supposed to file the license within thirty days to make the marriage official, the college-student-turned-minister told her not to worry. He simply wouldn’t send in the forms. It’d be as if the marriage had never taken place.
She and John returned to Harmony that night. On the ride back, John tried to talk to her, but she shut him out. For the next six weeks he tried repeatedly to breach the wall she’d erected.
But when John gave up and hopped on his motorcycle the day after graduation to make his fortune, Hope felt as if her best friend had deserted her. Which made no sense at all.
“Botheration!” The words came out on a groan.
Hope blinked back to the present and realized the sound had come from Amity. “What’s the matter?”
“They’re coming this way,” Amity hissed.
“Who?”
“Brooke Hauder and her mother.” Amity busied herself arranging brochures on her table, as if not making eye contact would cause the two to walk on by. “Brooke’s wedding plans are solid but she’s convinced something will go wrong. Crazy high-maintenance.”
The two women were definitely sauntering their direction. The girl was whippet-thin with a pale complexion common to gingers. The mother was short and stout and reminded Hope of a fireplug.
Amity turned and offered a bright smile as the two stopped in front of her booth. “Hey, gals. What brings you here today?”
Hope knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she couldn’t remember ever seeing Amity attempt to avoid speaking with someone. Crouching down, Hope pretended to be sorting through a box of pamphlets.
The older woman placed a supportive hand on her daughter’s back. “Brooke has gotten herself all worked up over something. I hope speaking with you will reassure her.”
“Of course.” Amity spoke in a surprisingly soothing tone. “What’s got you stressed, sweetie?”
The girl toyed with the button on her coat. “Mom thinks I’m being silly—”
“Now, Brookie, I never said that.” The mother laughed lightly and shot Amity a conspiratorial glance.
“You thought it.” The girl narrowed her eyes at her mother. “I know you—”
“Tell me the problem.” Amity interrupted in a firm tone that silenced the two women.