Page 69 of Faking the Pass
While the inside of the inn was gorgeous, the real attraction was its location.
It sat on a peninsula with views of the open ocean on one side and Eastport Bay harbor on the other.
A vast green lawn swept down from the inn to rocky cliffs and beach rose hedges bordering the water.
White Adirondack chairs invited guests of the inn, as well as visitors, to sit and have a drink while watching the sun set—or earlier in the day to enjoy the sun and ocean breeze while watching sailboats glide past the point.
I peeked through the glass panels of the inn’s front door at the empty drive.
“Is a car on its way for us?” I asked, and Danielle gave me a mischievous look, clearly in on the secret.
“No need,” Olivia said. “Just follow me please.”
We left the inn. The day was sunny and bright with a perfect cooling seabreeze.
In the distance, the Eastport Bay Bridge was visible, stretching over deep blue water. The beautiful suspension bridge connected Eastport Bay with the next island town.
We followed Olivia along a sidewalk that led from the inn to a white sailcloth event tent just beside the water. There was no way we were getting marriedtherethough.
Yes, Presley had somehow managed to snag a celebrity wedding planner with only a few days’ notice, but that facility had to be booked years in advance, and our guest list was tiny.
As far as I knew.
Please tell me Presley didn’t invite his whole team and everyone we went to high school with. Please please please.
To my relief, we passed right by the large tent, crossing through a beautiful garden. The path turned left, and then I saw it.
A tiny chapel tucked among the towering old-growth English beech trees.
It looked ancient, maybe even older than the inn, and it was so small it would hold no more than thirty people. A stone walkway leading to the entrance of the white clapboard structure was bordered by colorful tulip beds.
Flanking the chapel’s periwinkle-blue door were lush flowering plants, including beautiful hydrangeas in full bloom. The New England staples had always been my favorite.
The way the sunlight shone through the trees and dappled its roof and front door, it all looked like something out of a dream.
Olivia turned to me, beaming. “Here we are. Ready to get married? For real this time?”
Leaning closer, she whispered into my ear, “I like this onemuchbetter for you.”
Obviously Presley hadn’t shared the details with Olivia when he’d hired her.
She leaned around the hedge beside us and said to someone I couldn’t see, “She’s here.”
Suddenly there was music. It sounded like a string quartet. Instead of a movie score or even the Bridal Chorus, they played a familiar-sounding tune.
It took me a second to place it, but after a few notes I recognized the song.
My favorite love ballad from my high school days.
In shock, I searched Olivia’s expectant face. “Is this… did you pick this song?”
“Not me,” she said with a wink. “Get ready. Here comes your flower girl.”
“Flower girl?”
An adorable red-haired child emerged from the front of the chapel and ran up to me. She wore a frilly ankle-length white dress and held a basket of pink flower petals.
When she reached me, she touched my dress lightly, a dreamy look on her little face.
