I’d always been certain my parents had the fastest courtship and engagement of any couple I’d ever heard of. Dad had fallen for Mom and proposed three weeks after they met. She’d said no, of course. He’d had to ask three more times before she’d finally agreed, but the fact that he’d been so sure after such a short amount of time blew me away. Still, it was nothing compared to the speed of Chloe’s whirlwind engagement. It hadn’t been three full months since she’d kidnapped me on that fateful Saturday morning and taken me to my first Hamilton brothers’ soccer game, oohing and aahing over the “untouchable brothers” everyone dreamed of dating.

And now she was engaged. To some new guy—Chad something or other—who was days away from starting pharmacy school at UNC and probably hadn’t even finished unpacking his apartment before he and Chloe had been shopping for wedding rings.

Which was why I found myself on the longest Tuesday morning of my life working through the details of Chloe and Chad’s wedding reception. Because the gardens at Winding Way were perfect for Chloe’s wedding photos. And the ballroom at Winding Way was perfect for the dance party she wanted her reception to be. And the terrace at Winding Way was perfect for her bouquet toss, and the food was perfect, and the main staircase was perfect, and by eleven thirty, I was pretty sure if I heard the word perfect one more time I was going to quit my job and move to Tahiti.

At least I wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by Chloe’s enthusiasm. Her mom hugged me on their way out the door, giving my shoulders an extra squeeze. “Thank you for being so patient,” she said softly. “Hopefully she’ll mellow out a little by October.”

I smiled. She probably wouldn’t. But it’s not like I could complain. She loved everything about the inn. That made my job really easy. After seeing Chloe and her mom out the door, I headed to the kitchen in search of lunch but was waylaid by a call from my mother. I hesitated before answering. I hadn’t talked to Mom in . . . days? Weeks, maybe? Granny Grace’s words flashed through my brain. Maybe it was time to finally fess up a few details. I answered the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Well, bless me, the daughter I thought was lost to me has finally answered the phone.”

“Very funny. How are you?”

“Busy. Have you talked to John lately? He’s not answering my calls either.”

“Not since last week. I’m sure he’ll call you when he’s got some free time.” John was in the throes of a pediatric surgical residency. Which generally made his “I’m busy” excuses much more convincing than mine.

“I hope he does. I want him to come home for Thanksgiving this year.”