“I’m sorry. The booking came in this morning. A bride from Chicago. I tried to call you to save you the trip, but there’s not much cell service on the drive. I left a message . . .” The events person from Los Olivos Vineyards let her voice trail off. She was inexperienced and, despite her apology, rather unapologetic. She took the first legit reservation and the deposit that came with it for a night in December during a slow week. Minutes before their arrival at the charming spot with the perfect barn, the permanent tent over the dance floor, and enough grapevines to please the average wine taster but not so many as to fool everybody into believing that Los Olivos was anything more than a for-show vineyard, a bride-to-be from Chicago had beaten them to the punch. “The bride hasn’t even seen the place, but she said there was nothing else left in town, except the women’s club. Which is . . . not top-tier.”

“This is not top-tier. We should have been given first right of refusal seeing that we were on our way here.” Madison was working up a head of steam but staying on the right side of polite. Barely.

Alexa stepped in. She had been through too much in life to be undervalued by the events coordinator at a fake winery. “It’s not even a real vineyard. I don’t think it would have worked anyway. Good luck to the bride from Chicago. This place will be a muddy mess when the December rains hit.”

Turning to poor Madison, Alexa reassured her. “Let’s head back down the mountain to real civilization. I have a few thoughts on places much better suited for our purposes.” And then with a nod to Brittany or Kelsy or whatever might be the name of the young woman in the inappropriate polka-dot minidress, she headed back to the car.

*  *  *

“Is this a disaster?” Abigail spoke first once they got back to the car.

“No.” Alexa and Madison spoke at once.

“We can regroup. We will find a spot that’s not the women’s club. I’m thinking some out-of-the-box place for the wedding. Someplace uniquely Montecito. Like the Padaro Surf Club, but inside for seventy-five people and a ceremony,” said Madison with false confidence.

“Agreed. I’ll reach out to my local contacts. There must be someplace we’re missing. We need a day to come up with it,” Alexa added, energized by the incompetency of the winery employee. Now she finally felt invested in this task. This was her Penny, her wedding. “Can you call Penny? For some reason, she really had her heart set on that fake vineyard. And I don’t think I can break it to her.”