Page 58 of A Wedding in a Week

He does, and remember how I’m this farm’s resident beauty expert? How I’ve seen more than my share of amazing dawns and gorgeous sunsets? Marc has every single one of them beat the second he realises why he can’t come to the bank with me.

“Oh, it’s at the same time as my interview. I thought…”

He scrubs at his face next, and Hayden can’t see what crosses it when his hands drop, not from where he stands behind Marc. He only sees whatever must cross mine, but for once, I must show enough to tell a story that he reads loud and clearly. He backs off like Marc just did, only Hayden goes further, circling his truck with Jess following, leaving Marc and I facing each other.

He scrubs his face again. “I thought…”

I don’t think.

I can’t.

I close the last of the distance, shrugging out of my sling to wrap both arms around him.

“It’s ours,” I promise. “Yours and mine, or it could be.” I don’t know how that would work, not exactly, but I do know this. “I want us to keep going, Marc, remember?”

I don’t let go of him until he nods. He nods again more firmly, and that’s better. So is his suggestion.

“How about you go and practice giving my presentation while me and Hayden set up the tent and get the final photos? Even if the business manager doesn’t give you time to run through it all, you can memorise the finance slides. They have everything you need.”

Apart from you.

Again, that must show on my surface. Marc murmurs, “You’ll smash it without me.” He repeats a phrase that’s become a mantra. “You’ll smash it, Stef. All you need is practice.”

He’s right. Or at least he is about needing to practice. It also means I have to backtrack in a hurry about not needing Hayden’s help here.

I find him with Jess who’s busy showing him her belly. He stands when I start to ask, “Listen, could you—”

He’s already a step ahead of me, his truck keys in hand. “Pitch that tent for you?” He gets in his truck and pops the passenger door for Marc. “It’s what I promised.”

All that’s left is to thank him for a third time, but for a first time, I really mean it.

* * *

I spend the last of the afternoon doing what Marc suggested, practicing along with his slideshow. It’s only missing a couple of images now, and he’s left notes under those blank spaces. One is simple enough. I read insert honeymoon-night tent and can easily picture what will soon fill it. The other blank slide isn’t so obvious. It just says happy couple.

It’s still on my mind when I’m done going over slide content that I already know inside out. I’m reminded again when I go upstairs to check I’ve got clothes suitable for asking the bank for money. A suit Lukas described as making me a vision in beige is my best option. What I can’t find is a dress shirt or remember when I last saw any, which means they’ll be a crumpled mess at the bottom of an ironing basket I haven’t touched for over a month now.

That’s a clue about who might have them. I call the only person in our family who cares about creases. “Mum?”

“Stefan,” she says, and I can hear her smile. “Calling to warn me where you’ll be snogging Marc this evening?”

“No.”

“Shame,” she says. “I was going to sell tickets this time. The girls at the WI were agog when I told them.”

Christ.

“Just don’t tell—”

“Your brother?” Now I hear a rare frown. “Has he told you when he’ll be home? He should be here already if he’s going to have a good long rest for the summer. I’ve come up with lots of ideas to make him sit still when he gets back, but he keeps putting me off when I text him. What’s keeping him so busy?”

“It isn’t a what.” I pause for dramatic effect. “It’s a who. She’s called Destiny.”

The inhale I hear next is usually reserved for Lukas sharing gossip, not me. “That’s who’s keeping him in London?” Mum asks, all breathless. She also shares my secret worry. “You don’t think he’s wearing himself out, do you? Burning his candle at both ends when he should be taking it easy?”

“All I know is that he’s had more than one date with her now.” That’s unheard of. It’s also a change for me to feed Mum some gossip, and I’d enjoy turning the tables if I didn’t have a different, more pressing mission. Two of them, in fact.

I start with the one that comes with a memory of a teacup digging into my chest. Now a sling covers that spot. I rub the fabric like Marc did downstairs and say, “Hey, listen. Thanks for what you did this morning. With Marc, I mean.”

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