Jennifer McKenzie - Not Another Wedding

“Poppy, sweetheart.” Rose Sullivan came barreling out of the house, her arms wide, and practically knocked Poppy back into the driver’s seat when she reached her. “What took you so long? We expected you an hour ago.”

“I know.” Poppy had planned her route down to the last detail. Almost. “I forgot how bad vacation traffic is on a Friday.” Apparently, half of Vancouver had headed for the area to spend the weekend lounging by the lake or touring the many wineries in the region.

Her dad, Bob, stood stoically behind, waiting until her mom finished fussing before giving her one of his famous bear hugs that squeezed out any breath left in her lungs, but Poppy didn’t mind. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the pleasure of being back with her family even if just for a week.

“Can I get you a drink?” Rose put an arm around her as she ushered her inside. “You look warm.”

Poppy was warm. The interior of the province ran much hotter and drier than the coast. “No, I need to grab my bags and a quick shower though.” She hugged her mom again. They didn’t see each other enough living so far apart. They kept in touch through regular phone calls and emails, but neither took the place of in-person contact.

“Your dad will get the bags,” her mom said. Poppy glanced behind and found her father already dragging her golf clubs and the three full-size suitcases from the trunk. “Let’s sit down for a minute and catch up.”

Poppy would love to put her feet up and hash over everything in their lives, but she refused to show up at the barbecue with hair that looked as if she had been through a hurricane and mascara that had become a smeary mess on her cheeks. Unless the only thing she wanted to convince Jamie of was that she had turned feral.

She managed to extricate herself after another long hug. “Tomorrow morning, okay?”

“All right. I guess I should get ready for the barbecue, too.” Her mother embraced her again. “It’s so good to have you home.”

It was good to be back.

Poppy’s old bedroom was on the second level and hadn’t changed much in the twelve years since she’d graduated high school and left for university in Vancouver. The walls were still a pale green and the prints were the same black-and-white botanicals she’d picked out when she turned thirteen. She wished she could flop down on her old double bed and rest for a moment. It might not be as comfy as her king-size bed with its four-hundred-thread-count linens in the city, but she’d appreciate the respite. Plus, the room seemed deliciously cool thanks to the air-conditioning.

But duty called.

She didn’t have time to wash and blow-dry her hair, so she twisted it into a heavy knot on top of her head to keep it from getting wet and stepped in the shower. She stayed under the spray long enough to strip the tension from her muscles from the drive and then a few minutes more. By the time she flicked off the water, she felt much improved.

She decided to leave her hair down, letting it frame her face with its natural waves. Poppy had learned a long time ago not to fight her hair. It was too thick and bouncy to fall into one of those sleek, stylish cuts. And when she’d tried coloring it in her youth—once blond and once a disastrous black that had left little patches of dark all along her hairline—she’d looked like death. So she worked with what she had. Though there were still days she wished she’d inherited her father’s straight brown hair, she’d come to appreciate that not everyone had hair like hers.

She returned to her bedroom, discovered the suitcases on the bed and rooted through until she found the one holding her outfit for tonight. The dress was a tight, cap-sleeve, bandage style in dark blue that made her feel sexy and just a little naughty, even though the hem came almost to her knee and the neckline only hinted at the faux boobs her amazing underwire bra created. Wynn had whistled when she’d shown him. And as her best friend, business partner and gay man about town, he would know if it was worthy of a whistle or two.

A quick glance at the clock told her she had five minutes before her mother started making noises that the bus was leaving. No time to bother with much makeup. But since it would be hot outside until the sun dipped behind the mountains about three hours from now, and Poppy had zero interest in running to the bathroom every two seconds to make sure her face hadn’t melted off, she didn’t mind. She only put on concealer to hide the circles under her eyes from the late nights at work this week, a touch of blush and a couple coats of mascara.

Satisfied she no longer looked as if she’d been living in the forest subsisting on nuts and berries for the last year, she tucked her lip balm and face powder inside a gold clutch, grabbed a pair of matching gold sandals and headed downstairs.

There was a wedding to call off and no time to waste.

* * *

BECK LEFEBVRE STOOD at the edge of Jamie’s lawn, which was covered in a blanket of pink flower petals, and frowned. He did not want to be at this wedding barbecue welcome or whatever Jamie called it. There were things to do at the office. Important things, like the delicate deal he was in the midst of finalizing, and now had to manage by phone and email. The Lefebvre Group owned five hotels and would be adding their sixth next month under Beck’s guidance. Not that his mother had cared when he’d explained it to her.

Instead of realizing Beck couldn’t just up and leave Seattle to come to Naramata for a week of wedding celebration for his cousin Jamie, she’d told him as best man he was expected to be in attendance and had laid down one hell of a guilt trip.

As if he needed another reason to avoid family entanglements.

Besides the flowers scattered across the yard, bunches of some filmy white material lay draped over everything that was stationary, including the rows of grapes surrounding the back lawn. A small wooden floor covered the pool and a band in the corner played a mixture of seventies rock and classical music. They wore matching tuxes and had a sash strung over the drum kit proclaiming congratulations to the happy couple. The whole thing was sickeningly sweet. Like Barbie’s Dream Wedding, which Emmy would probably consider a compliment.

Though scarcely past six, the party was in full swing. Jamie told him things started early here, where people farmed for a living and rose with the sun. Beck recognized no one, but that didn’t come as much of a surprise, considering he hadn’t been back for more than ten years.

He was working on finishing his first Laphroaig when his mother hunted him down. He should have seen her coming or heard the sound of her heels, but he’d been entertaining himself by calculating how many parquet squares were on the dance floor and wondering how long he had to stay before he could leave Jamie’s winery located on the bluff and return to the family compound by the lake.

“Beck, darling. What are you doing over here?” Victoria Antonia Lefebvre Jackman Hastings smiled at her only child and reached up to lay a hand on his arm.

“Having a drink.” Beck showed off his scotch, which offered the bonus effect of knocking her hand loose.

Hurt flashed in her blue eyes, but her voice remained friendly. “I meant, why are you standing over here like a lump instead of mingling?”

“It’s not my party.” Beck refused to feel bad. Just because she wanted to pretend they were one big happy family didn’t mean he had to play along.

“You’re the best man.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He turned from her, pretending interest in the scene before them. He spotted Jamie in a white suit, the counterpoint to his own charcoal one, just as Jamie was blond and kind and all things sugar and light, while he was dark and not so kind—all the better not to get run over in business. Beck doubted anyone ever referred to him as sweet.