Page 82 of A Wedding in a Week

I can’t lie.

I don’t walk outside to meet Mum with good news—there’s still no firm decision—but I float on this proof that, loan or not, Marc’s presentation was enough to sell Love-Land Weddings to at least one half of a happy couple. With Mum and Lukas behind me, I’ve also got other options, and that’s what I want for Marc and Noah.

That makes it so much easier to ask for that third and final favour.

I do it further down the street, carrying that box into an enterprise centre lined with windows that I know Mum must peer through—she’s Lukas-Luxton levels of nosy. I’m okay with that just as long as she doesn’t start dancing.

The practice manager comes out of his office to greet me before she gets a chance to. “How’s Marc? And his brother?” This concern is genuine and so is the relief I witness, quickly shared with the rest of his team who gather, wanting to hear the latest about how Noah’s doing.

“He’s healing really well. Marc had some scary moments, but Noah’s progress is amazing.”

The practice manager is all smiles. “That’s so great to hear.”

These are good people. I can see why Marc wanted to join their network, and that’s what I ask for. Or at least I try to, tripping over what came out smoothly in the silence of my kitchen when I practiced with only Jess as witness, her tail thumping each time I said Marc’s name. Now I stumble over a request I make in his absence.

“I’m actually here for him. For Noah, I mean. And for Marc. He needs...” I wet dry lips. My throat dries too. Fantastic. “I know you’ve probably already chosen your new team member...”

The practice manager doesn’t answer.

I look over my shoulder. Mum’s there for me—for us—so I keep going, and maybe she’s right about trying new dance steps. I sidestep thinking that this is too late or hopeless. Instead, I do what’s become easier now I’ve had some practice. I show off what’s in this box that Marc would have woven into his presentation, if he’d had time to make it.

There’s a cream tea inside it, of course. The practice manager’s eyebrows rise at scones nestling alongside business cards dotted with Cornish pasties. He blinks at a wedding invitation as well, and the words finally come to me as he reads out the date on it.

My pitch isn’t as smooth as Marc’s would have been, but I must still sound convincing. Or desperate. Either way, the manager picks up the last item I packed, sand falling as he turns over Marc’s egg timer.

I hope it reinforces this message.

“Marc had seven hours to come up with a case study. Then he had seven days to prove he could work in partnership to make a Cornish business successful. He had until the end of his interview slot on the seventh day to show you how he’d do it. He hit every single checkpoint up until the last one, didn’t he?”

The practice manager nods, egg timer still in his hand.

There’s no more sand left to fall through its hourglass, no more time to waste either, not if I want to give Marc options like he gave me.

Now I return that favour, or I try to.

“Time stopped for Marc then. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t make your final deadline.” I take the egg timer, and I’m a big man with big hands, I know. The timer certainly looks tiny between my fingers that have healed enough to grip it. “That’s why I’m inviting you to my farm.”

I turn the timer over. It only has enough sand for three minutes, but I start a three-day countdown.

“Come at noon this Friday. I’ll finish his presentation for him.”

* * *

What’s that saying about it taking a whole village to raise kids? Apparently, that’s also what it takes to put on a full-scale wedding in a few days when your whole future depends on it.

The last time I saw this many people from Porthperrin, they wore their party best and celebrated. The time before that, their clothes were darker. Tonight I’ve got a village full of helpers dressed to work hard for me, and with less than eighteen hours to go and the sun starting to dip below the horizon, I only wish that one of them could fix the electric hook-up.

Hayden whoops, my headland flooding with sudden brightness, and that’s one wish granted. He plugs in a connector, more light filling the huge all-weather marquee I’ve borrowed from him, and he whoops again. Jess dances around him, her tail blurring, and I don’t blame her—if I had a tail, I’d wag it just like she does at how close to perfect this man’s helped to make my vision.

Everyone here has.

Mum’s friends from the Women’s Institute have been game changers—if you want the impossible done in a hurry, ask the WI. They’re still busy with finishing touches, like John is too. He’s up on the tractor, cutting a path through lush pasture. Rebecca cuts another that could lead brides or grooms to an arch that Jude’s sister now threads with flowers in a trial run for tomorrow. Drifting laughter suggests that Rob and Jude also give the Anchor’s mobile bar a trial run, but fuck me, everyone here deserves a drink on me for helping.

More laughter echoes, and it’s exactly what I imagined, although I still don’t know why tying the knot ever called so strongly to me that it seemed my only business option.

Pulling out my phone suggests one good reason.

Marc fills my lock screen, and I guess it isn’t only genetics that shapes hearts. The environment does too, and I want him in mine even if it takes months more waiting.

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