Page 85 of The Sun and the Moon
She’s practically saying it with her whole chest.This engagement party is a wedding! Surprise!But without some kind of proof, I don’t want to freak Sydney out. We’re not supposed to be scheming. I’msupposedto be detaching and staying open. But if they are lying to everyone, their comfort level with lying makes me all the more suspect of both of them. What else could they be keeping secret, and at what point do we hold them accountable?
“I’ll go let them know about the decision,” she says, turning away from me and walking in the direction of the visitor’s entrance where the event coordinator has an office. When she’s gotten far enough away, I empty both wineglasses into my mouth and set them on the table.
Just one more time, just for peace of mind, I’m going to spy on my mother.
I follow her back through the vineyard, trying to be as covert as possible and not draw attention from the staff. There’s a flurry of activity around the gazebo set on one of the hilltops, nestled into the vineyards that flow into the hills at the edge of the property.
Gazebos historically point to wedding ceremonies.
The closer we get to the visitor’s entrance the more suspicious all this gazebo activity makes me. The main kitchen, utilized only for events, since Whimsy Winery doesn’t offer anything more than charcuterie and bread and olive oil on their normal tasting menu, is abuzz with activity.
Sure, they might be prepping food for tomorrow, but I take a quick detour to peek inside. It looks like they’re setting up to actually serve today. Platters of tapas are arranged. Silver trays are being polished. Glassware steamed. They’re prepping entrées, sauces, and in one corner a pastry chef appears to be putting the final touches on what I can only describe as a full-blown wedding cake.
Two tiers. Rustic. Herbs and flowers wreathing their way down one side.
Why the fuck would an engagement party require a wedding cake?
I whip around from the kitchen, crossing beneath a porte cochere that connects the building with the visitor center, and approach the window at the side of the door. I don’t want to burst in and yellgotcha. That would just make her double down on the lie. I know Moira well enough to know that. So I peer through the window. She’s sitting across from the event coordinator, and in her hand she’s holding a small piece of cardstock. Her smile is broad, bright, pleased. The look of a woman who is in on the joke but knows no one else has caught on yet.
I have to find out what’s written on that card.
They continue to chat for a few more minutes, until Moira hands back the card and stands to leave. I drop down from the window, hoping that the angle of the door opening will shield me enough that she doesn’t see me when she comes back out this way. I try to become one with the outer wall, wishing I were dressed in neutrals and had hair that didn’t require its own zip code. But fortunately, when the door opens, she’s too absorbed in her conversation—which I barely catch anything from—to glance in my direction.
I slip inside, unnoticed, feeling extremely James Bond.
And a little guilty for how quickly I abandoned the promise I made Sydney to stop scheming and look for a path forward. I hope that if I present her with proof of a con in action, she’ll at least direct any anger she feels to our parents and not me.
Her opinion of me matters, a truth I can admit to myself and will have to freak out about at another time.
I make a beeline straight for the event coordinator’s desk, where I see a small paperboard box of cardstock sits holding a selection of invitations. My eyes graze them, taking in the simple hunter-green font and the grapevine border. The vineyard’s watermark is pressed into the lower right corner, making them look like they come from the winery and not the couple.
Please join Rick and Moira at Whimsy Winery this evening for a special tour & tasting. Dress to impress. All expenses paid. Shuttle service begins at five.
Tonight.
This is the confirmation I need to show Sydney.
The next thought bolts through me like a shock of electricity. No longer a tap or a whisper, this is a blast from my intuition, and I can’t ignore it.Together. We need to decide together what to do about this wedding. We pinky promised we were partners in this, and I want to keep that promise.
We came here thinking Moira was conning Rick, and we were wrong. Moira and Rick are conning us into attending their wedding.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sydney
They’ve wrapped Pam in one of those silver foil blankets you always see people wearing after traumatic situations in movies. She’s sitting on a bench by a row of hanging saddles, sipping a glass of tepid water. The horse, a usually docile paint mare, is a few stalls over, eating some hay. Dad and Greg are talking to the ferrier and the owner, trying to smooth things over considering Pam adamantly protested the fault of the horse, taking the blame squarely on her own shoulders.
“It’s big of you,” I say, dropping down next to her on the bench. She snorts. Her eyes still have this wild look in them. More like exhilaration than pure fear. “Taking responsibility like that.”
“I have to confess, sometimes I want to just go bananas and throw caution to the wind.” She takes a sip of her water, turning her warm brown eyes on me. “I was sitting there on that saddle, trying to gently coax the horse toward the trail. The instructor was nearby calling out orders I should follow to ease the horse back into the direction we were meant to go, and I just snapped.” She releases her grip on the blanket to snap her fingers. “I pressedmy legs around the horse and said,Let’s go!” She guffaws. “And she listened!” She shakes her head, grabbing me by the wrist. “Oh, it felt so good, so liberating.”
Her laugh is contagious, not just to me but to the horses in stalls nearby. Her horse whinnies, and Pam cackles.
“Sometimes you just gotta say screw it and let go,” she adds.
Thescrew itis so Pam, but the words land on me in a very personal way. I wouldn’t usually consider myself the kind of person to read into every little thing happening around me as a sign from the universe. But this week has somehow shifted my awareness, broadening the possibility in my imagination that I am not alone in creating the life I want. There could be some force presenting me with guidance, not simply offering me choices. These feelings about my work, Dad’s apology for dropping the ball, putting forth the idea that his losses eclipsed my own desires and forced me onto a path I didn’t actually choose, which I might not have taken had things happened differently.
Had he just told me that leaving his beloved career had been a choice, not a requirement, I might not have felt so bound to the path of pilot. To following in his footsteps as a way to carry on his legacy. Would I have tried to explore one of those other wild ambitions I had on my list through the years? Would I have felt more grounded in my own life rather than rooted in the life we didn’t get to have as a family?
