Page 1 of The Brit and the Bridesmaid
Chapter One
There was nothing quite as dangerous as a Brit-obsessed romantic planning a dream wedding.
For weeks, Abby Grover had followed her sister, the bride-to-be, from one possible venue to the next.
“It’s not English enough,” Caroline had declared of a ritzy hotel.
“A British lake would have different trees,” she’d said of an upscale country club.
The day they visited a historic-church-turned-reception-hall, Abby thought they’d found the perfect place. It was old and elegant and antique-y. Caroline had seemed almost convinced. She even spoke at length with the event planner. But on the drive home, she crossed the reception hall off her list.
“No one there has an English accent,” Caroline explained quite firmly.
“This is Oregon.”
Unfortunately, logic cannot compete with Anglo-mania. “There will be accents at my wedding. I must have accents.”
My sister is insane. Completely insane.
And so, for the fifth Saturday in a row, Abby and her sister drove to yet another location too swanky for ordinary people. Caroline, however, was aiming far beyond ordinary.
“Sainsbury House was built in 1880,” Caroline told her, scanning the venue’s website on her phone. “It has gardens. I need gardens.”
Abby could appreciate the need for a garden. She loved plants. Loved them. She drove down a narrow lane.
Caroline’s voice jumped an octave. “And there’s a conservatory.”
Apparently conservatories were reason for excitement. Caroline sounded ready to jump out of the car and run the rest of the way.
“You realize,” Abby warned her. “No one there will have a British accent.”
“This will be perfect. I can feel it.”
They pulled into the parking lot. Abby had developed a keen eye for venues. Plenty of parking. Easy to find. These were points in Sainsbury House’s favor. Or would have been if Abby were the one choosing. Of course, there was absolutely no chance of Abby choosing a wedding venue. She hadn’t been in a relationship in a year, and the guy she’d been with then had proven to be such a complete jerk that she had no plans of ever dating anyone again. No, the realm of wedding plans was exclusively Caroline’s.
She looked at her sister, wondering what she thought of her first glimpse of the Sainsbury House grounds. Everything would probably depend on how historic and English and fancy the house itself looked, and on how well the staff could pretend to be British.
Abby got out of the car and stepped onto the cobblestone walkway. The sooner they had their tour and Caroline ran down her list of requirements with the event coordinator, the sooner they could be on their way again.
“Five acres of land.” Caroline was still inhaling every piece of information she could find online. “Five acres.”
“Remind me again why you need five acres for a small, family wedding.”
“Because.”
“That isn’t actually a reason.”
Caroline shook her head, sighing dramatically. In her “I’m quoting something very English” voice, she said, “Why must every day involve a fight with an American?”
“Youare an American.”
Caroline waved that off. “It’s a thing people say.”
Abby eyed her sister more closely. “And these people who say this, they don’t happen to be British people in period dramas on public television, do they?”
Caroline looked the tiniest bit guilty.
Abby had to smile. “I don’t know how Gregory puts up with you.”
