“Come,” my mother panted, pulling on my arm, her towering hat askew. “You need to talk to your sister. She’ll listen to you.”

“Jules needs your sisterly spirit,” Aunt Camellia said, her face creased in worry as she held onto her hat with both hands. “Your emotional strength as a woman.”

“Get in there and fix this problem,” Aunt Iris said, her hat off as she shook it at me. “Your sister is flipping out and we need a solution.”

“But what’s wrong?”

“You’ll see.”

They shoved me into Jules’s childhood bedroom. She was in a pink fluffy robe stained with coffee and red wine. She was pacing, having a hard time breathing, her hand on her throat.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m getting married!”

“But you want to get married,” I said, giving her a hug.

“I know, I know. But I’m nervous. I have nerves. I haven’t seen Mack in a week, and that makes me feel all jittery and scared.” She wrung her hands. She gasped. She bent over. We were definitely in meltdown territory.

“Jules, remember what you love about Mack.”

“I love a lot about him. In bed, he’s so kind, but he’s so passionate. He knows exactly how I like to make love, the pacing, and how I like things different sometimes and sometimes the same, and how he’s always a gentleman and he’s romantic and whispers sweet things to me so my mind is in it and my body is in it, too. He’s so fiery, he makes me feel like a woman, but oh!” She put her hands over her mouth and gasped, again and again.

“Take a breath, honey,” my mother said, all fluttery and worried.

“She needs to get her soul aligned with her goals,” Aunt Camellia cried.

“She’s having a dang panic attack,” Aunt Iris said.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Jules said, growing whiter by the second. “I’m getting married! I’m getting married. I’m getting married.” She put her hands to her long blonde hair. Then she fiddled with her hoop earrings. She stared at the tattoo of Mack’s face, then she burst into tears. I held her as she struggled for breath. Tears and not breathing. Well, we had a problem.

I knew what to do! I hugged her and hurried outside and found Mack, keeping my expression happy so as not to alarm the guests with a suspected freaked-out bride. “Come with me,” I told him.

His face instantly leaped to worry. “Is my honey bunch okay? Is my sweetie pie calm?”

“She’s nervous. She’s scared.”