Page 41 of Sweet and Salty

Once she parks, I help her load the cake—which has to weigh at least fifty pounds—onto a catering dolly, and we wheel it together into the reception hall, which is a round, barn-shaped building that’s been renovated into a convention center.

“Wow, this place is wild.” I pause in pushing the dolly to stare up at the giant tree growing in the middle of the hall. It’s blocked off with a glass hexagon, but you can still see the many-branched oak, decorated in fairy lights. The hall is divided into three sections to the east, west, and south of the entrance. Everything is wood-paneled and classy. Definitely Laird-Hunting-Castle-motif, apart from the black-and-white landscape photographs decorating the hallways.

A hand-painted signpost—which could also easily have been purchased from Etsy—stands near the front entrance. Each prong points to a different direction with cutesy phrases like The Flamboyance of Flamingos Cocktail Reception and The Pride Assembles for Dinner.

Talk about sticking to a theme. I respect it.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Laura says, no love lost in her voice. She bends down and pushes the dolly toward the spot where there are hopefully no live lions.

“You don’t like it?” I’m not sure if I’m referring to the room or the theme. Both are equally overwhelming after my recent foray into Wisconsin monasticism.

“Fricking Drydens,” she grumbles. “This whole resort is their property, and they renovated it like this.” She brandishes a hand toward the general surroundings. “It’s ostentatious, is what it is.”

“Who are the Drydens? I’ve heard people talking about them.”

We reach the dining room, set with more circular tables than I’ve ever seen outside of the Golden Globes on TV. The tablecloths and bows on the chairs are all vivid shades of purple, and there are large bamboo stalks, colorful feathers, and wild, spiky flowers in the centerpieces. We push the cake to a separate, smaller table set with a white tablecloth and a small wooden sign reading In Love and Wildly Sweet. Safe to assume that’s the cake table.

Laura runs an arm over her forehead, wiping away the minimal sheen of sweat that’s gathered there. “Do you know how in some small towns there’s a feud or rivalry between some of the longtime families? One of those ones that have been raging for generations until everyone has kind of forgotten what it was about in the first place and it becomes more work to keep hating than just to get over it and smile at each other at the coffee shop?”

“Um, sure.” I start plucking cardboard pieces from the side of the cake, revealing it in all its glory. And wow. It’s definitely something. Four tiers, and nothing traditional about it besides the heady scents of sugar and vanilla.

“This is nothing at all like that.” Laura disassembles her side of the makeshift cake carton and stows it on the bottom tray of the catering trolley. “The Drydens suck. They’re rude and snobbish and flash their money all around town. They rig every single local competition. I mean, look at this place. They bought it from my grandparents, who had distant Potawatomi Nation roots, and they totally stiffed Mom’s family. Just because they could. Do they even have a perfunctory land acknowledgment? No, of course not. Don’t even get me started about how they never lift up anyone else unless it suits them. They persist in whitewashing the history of this county like everyone else, and worse than that, they own a pharmaceutical empire that definitely used to dump toxic waste on the mainland. They destroy our future and our past.”

Expending all that vitriol seems to invigorate her, bringing a flush to her freckled cheeks and making her eyes glow as green as emeralds. If I wanted to kiss her before, it’s nothing compared to the urge now.

The pieces of cardboard in my hands weigh down my arms. Quickly, I move them to the bottom tray of the catering trolley, trying to regain my composure. “Wow. I had no idea. They sound like assholes.”

“Exactly.” She huffs, the breath lifting a lock of hair away from her eyes. “Okay. This looks all right, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s what she wanted. Fingers crossed her wishes were accurate.” Laura takes out her phone, her diatribe apparently forgotten, and moves around the cake table, snapping various photos. “These will look great on Frosting Monkey. Unless I keep getting comments like ‘What the hell was she thinking?’ I admire Daisy for standing up and asking for what she wants.” She sighs and turns to me. “Are you okay on your own for a little while? I have to get some more stuff out of my car, change, and the ceremony starts in about forty-five minutes.”

“Sure.” I smile at her, a gesture that feels as natural as breathing. I’ll wait forever for her. “I’ll see you soon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Jesse

It isn’tdifficult to occupy myself. Despite Laura’s feelings about the owners, the resort grounds are gorgeous and well worth some contemplation time. The lawns are dotted with elegantly trimmed topiaries, shaped like hedgehogs and badgers and different types of flowers.

I stroll down to the lake, where a gaggle of geese swim in the water, the mama goose keeping her babies in a straight line.

Talk about attention to detail, though. No matter where I look, there’s no goose poop anywhere. What sort of resort hires someone to clean up goose shit?

“I don’t know you,” a stern, feminine voice says.

I turn from the geese to see a young woman who screamsexpensive. Not necessarily in the way Esme did, all flash and pomp and begging for trips to Fashion Week I couldn’t afford but worked my ass off to try to give her. No, this woman clearly has annual VIP passes to the best shows. She’s old-money expensive. Blond, trim, tailored suit and three-inch heels. “Yes. I’m here for the wedding. I’m with the wedding cake designer.”

The woman snorts and marks a note on her tablet. “Wedding cake designer? That’s a little expansive, if you’re referring to Laura Marshall.”

“Laura Marshall’s brilliant.” My hackles rise. “If you haven’t seen the cake yet, it’s a work of creative genius.”

She purses her lips slightly. “I didn’t know she was seeing anybody.”

Technically, she’s not seeing me, but I don’t think this woman needs to know that. “I’m new in town. Jesse. I work at Moe’s.”

Her left eyebrow twitches, but she either has remarkable self-control or Botox because her face betrays no other expression. “Clara Dryden. This is my family’s property.”

“It’s beautiful.” I gaze out over the lake. For all the hell of my first few weeks in St. Olaf, the area comes alive in spring. Out of muck rises beauty.

“Well, if you’re here for the wedding, you should head inside. They’re starting to seat people.”

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