THIRTY-SIX
CLARA
The wind knifedstraight through my coat the second I stepped out of the car, breath puffing white in front of me. My arms were full—a camera bag digging into one shoulder, garment bags piled over the other, a clipboard wedged against my ribs—and I just stood there in the packed snow of Star Harbor Family Farm’s parking lot, heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold.
It had been a week since I walked out of Wes’s house with a duffel and a shaking voice.
Seven days of pretending the lumpy couch at Kit’s was a fun sister sleepover and not an emotional evacuation point. Seven days of trying not to think about the jewelry store envelope folded into the back pocket of my camera bag with an appraisal and an obscene number attached to the ring I had every intention of selling. Seven days of smiling in town while feeling the weight of small-town stares slide over me—curious, sympathetic, nosy in that way Star Harbor had perfected.
“Clara!” Cal called. “You’re here—good. We’re running about fifteen minutes behind on florals.”
Right. Work. I had work.
I smiled at Cal as he helped me off-load the wedding dresses. “I’ve got you all set up in the cottage. Plenty of room to get ready.”
I was so grateful for him. I’d promised him and Elodie that I would make the farm shine, and I had every intention of delivering. “Thanks. I’m going to pop over and make sure no one needs anything, and then I’ll start getting myself together.”
He nodded, and I squared my shoulders against the wind before starting toward the big blue barn.
The place looked like the inside of a snow globe someone had shaken a little too hard. The white trim peeked out behind the trees, and the dull gray-blue water of an icy Lake Michigan made the blue pop against the Western Michigan sky. The barn doors were propped open, strings of twinkle lights already glowing against dark wood even though it was barely early afternoon. Elodie’s touch was everywhere—vintage lanterns on barrels, crates stacked with folded blankets, a chalkboard sign that read WINTER WEDDING SHOOT in her feminine looping script.
Inside, it was controlled chaos. Buckets of flowers on a folding table. The photographer’s light stands, gear cases, and the faint hiss of a space heater working overtime.
“Florals over here, please,” I called automatically, weaving through bodies to the center of the barn. “No, a little closer to the doors so we get the light through them. Twinkle lights higher—we’ll start at the oak, then move to the barn doors.”
Hands moved. People adjusted. Someone shoved a clipboard into my free hand.
“I think this is yours,” they said, already hurrying away.
I took a breath and let the rhythm of it steady me. Shot list. Timeline. Problem-solving. It was easier to focus on logistics than on the hollow ache under my breastbone.
“Big day.” Elodie’s voice came from behind me, warm and familiar.
I turned as she wrapped me in a quick, tight hug that smelled like cinnamon and cold air. Her cheeks were pink from the wind, hair tucked up under a knit hat, clipboard of her own half-tucked against her chest.
“You holding up okay?” she asked, leaning back to search my face.
“Great.” I pasted on a smile that didn’t feel entirely fake. “Busy is good.” I exhaled and leaned in to tell her the truth. “I’ll be okay.”
Her mouth flattened a little, revealing exactly how much worried big-sister energy she’d been expending. “Well,” she said, patting my arm, “if it turns out you’re not, you know where the good whiskey is. In the meantime, this place has never looked better.”
Pride flickered under my ribs, bumping against the hurt. “Thanks. I think the florist is having a meltdown about the temperature, but it really did all come together.”
Elodie laughed and moved off to wrangle vendors. I stepped toward the open doors, fingers tightening on my clipboard as a gentle gust of wind cut through the barn and made the lights sway.
A low murmur of voices floated from near the entrance. I caught just enough as I walked past to set my teeth on edge.
“That’s the Darling girl, right? The one from the almost-wedding?”
“Can you imagine? I’d never look at a bouquet again.”
Their voices dropped when they realized I was within earshot. I kept walking, spine straight, cheeks burning under the winter air. Clipboard, camera, shot list. Nothing else was their business. Not today.
“Clara?” Mara, my photographer, waved me over from where she was adjusting a lens. Her dark hair was stuffed under abeanie, breath fogging the air. “Question. Do you want me to grab some groom shots before things get crazy, or ...”
My brain stuttered. “Groom shots?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly, like she was checking to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated something. “I thought I saw a guy in a tux heading toward the back path a minute ago. Maybe I’m losing it. Anyway, do you have a model lined up? I can start with details and landscape if not.”