I fake gasp. “Is that why there are crosses every two feet?”

Hallie slants me an I’m-not-amused glance as she stops outside a boring brown door. “I hope you got the sarcasm out of your system. Sandra will take anything you say seriously, and I’m sure she still feels badly about last night.”

“Fine,” I mutter as we head inside a room that finally makes me feel like we’re in the current century. The walls are comprised of the same dark wood paneling as the hallway and pews, but there’s a sectional couch in the corner upholstered with blue cotton. Sunshine streams in through the windows, beaming directly onto the folding table that’s been set up in the center of the space. Only brief glimpses of the scratched plastic surface are visible. Most of it’s covered with bobby pins, hair ties, tissues, water bottles, Band-Aids, and a variety of other miscellaneous items. A couple room dividers are set up, screening off parts of the space from immediate view.

“You’re here!” My attention is drawn from taking in the mess to the figure in a pink robe barreling toward us. Sandra stops just a couple of feet away. “Thank goodness.”

“Didn’t I say one?” Hallie asks, looking a bit bemused.

“Yes, you did,” Sandra confirms. “Everyone’s been asking when Hallie and Saylor would arrive, though!” She lets out a nervous laugh. “I guess we know who the real stars of the show are!”

I’m not surprised Hallie’s absence was missed. I am surprised mine was, but I’m guessing there’s a fair amount of intrigue about my presence. I haven’t been back home since graduating high school, except for Hallie’s wedding.

“This is the famous Saylor?” Another woman appears at Sandra’s side, one who looks enough like her, I’m certain they are related. “My goodness, you’re gorgeous dear.”

“Uh, thank you,” I respond. I’m sporting oversized sweats and a bun so messy it seems an insult to the hairstyle to even call it one. I figured I’d have plenty of time to get ready on Hallie’s early bird timetable.

“I’m Sandra’s sister, Sally,” the woman explains.

“Nice to meet you,” I reply with a polite smile.

“It feels like we’ve already met. I’ve heard so much about you from Marcus.”

That’s a surprise to me, but I keep my face neutral. Luckily, an interruption saves me from having to respond. The door reopens, and a middle-aged woman sticks her head in the room. “Photos in half an hour,” she announces, holding up the camera strapped around her chest.