Page 26 of Not My Finest Hour

“At least you opted for paper plates tonight instead of making us eat off of dishes you washed in the bathtub,” I say to her.

“Hold your tongue, Dahlia,” she snaps back. She sets the lid back down on the pot and looks up at Dad. “I need you to go to the garage and bring the slow cooker in.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Fern asks.

“You and Dahlia can set up the TV trays in the living room. We’ll eat off of those since the table is out in the garage for the time being.”

Now that we’ve all got our marching orders, Fern and I head back into the living room and set up the trays. Mom and Dad will sit in their own individual chairs, while Fern and I share the couch.

A few minutes pass, then Dad is coming through the plastic with a plate full of food. He hands it to Fern.

“Thanks, Dad, but I could’ve gotten my own plate,” Fern says, taking the plate from him.

He waves her off. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, I’m not about to have you serve me,” I say, then follow him into the kitchen to get my own plate.

By the time I get back into the kitchen, Mom has my plate already made up. She’s outdone herself. Somehow, with only a hot plate and a slow cooker, she’s managed to put together a dinner of pot roast with vegetables and buttered rice.

“I don’t suppose you made dessert too?” I ask.

“I made custard pudding earlier. It’s in the garage refrigerator,” she says with a smug smile on her face.

I pretend to tip a nonexistent cap to her. “Only you would go through all that trouble.”

“My kitchen may be a disaster, but we still have to eat,” she replies.

The three of us head to the living room where Fern is a few bites into her meal. I take my seat next to her.

“So, Fern, have you and Brett discussed wedding plans yet?” Mom asks.

That didn’t take long. I thought maybe she’d at least take a bite first before starting in with her questions. At least it’s not me in the hot seat.

I wait eagerly for Fern’s response. I can’t wait to see how she’s going to play this. Either she’ll keep quiet and let Mom think they’re planning a traditional wedding, or she’ll rip the bandage off now and tell her they’re eloping.

Fern shifts in her seat a few times, then pushes a bite around on her plate. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

That’s what she decided to go with?

Mom’s brows pinch together. “Really? You haven’t talked about itat all?”

“We’ve discussed it a little bit, but we haven’t decided on anything yet,” Fern says, amending her previous statement.

“Well, what have you two talked about? Maybe we can help,” Mom says, sitting up a little straighter.

I love how Mom acts like her input would help the situation. I know she means well, and just wants to be a part of Fern’s big day. But usually, her involvement ends up complicating things, and then no one has any fun. It almost makes me sad that Fern is eloping because Mom won’t be able to help out, and I won’t get to see the chaos that would ensue.

Fern is still quiet, and Dad, being the perceptive type, figures out that something’s not quite right with this situation. He glances back and forth between Fern and Mom and I can see him puzzling out what might be going on.

“Honey, I think you should let Fern and Brett keep their wedding plans between the two of them for now. They’ll let us know what they decide when they’re ready,” Dad says.

Mom lets out a sigh. “Okay. But please let us know the moment you two figure it out. We have to be able to plan for something of that size.”

I love it. Even though she’s been shut out, Mom’s still pushing for that big wedding. Bless her for trying.

“How’s work been for you, Dahlia?” Dad asks.

“Work has been fine. Same old, same old.”

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