Page 97 of The Matchmaker
“Nush—”
“Promise.”
“I promise,” I say, and she squeezes my shoulders just as Gemma steps into the room in the black dress, takes one look at our unenthusiastic reaction to it, and turns back around.
* * *
The village looks incredible. Bridget, who usually manages our Tidy Towns committee, took charge of getting the main street into shape. We painted the old buildings, we set up Harry’s fake window displays. We plucked wildflowers from the roadside and arranged them in bright, mismatched bunches every few steps. It all reminds me of the Ennisbawn in some of Granny’s old pictures, and not that I didn’t expect us to pull it off, but as I walked from Nush’s salon down to Kelly’s, a route I had taken so many times before, it was still a shock to the system.
What I really didn’t expect was so many people. It’s dumb, I know. It’s what I wanted. What I hoped and planned for. But when I envisioned the pub and the village teeming with guests, they were always just a faceless blur of color and movement. An abstract impression ofactivity, but with no actual realness to it.
These people are real. They are real and there are a lot of them, all dressed up for the party as they stroll around taking pictures and line up outside the pub, signing in to get their hand stamped, and find the name of their match.
Inside is even busier, something a few guys on the door were keeping track of, while others tried to keep everyone moving, flowing them through and out to the other side where the dance floor was ready by the lake and Danny and the rest of the musicians would soon take to the stage. We are going to have an outside bar too, but not for a while, and as a result, the queue for the inside one is several people deep. Adam just waves me on when he catches my eye though, telling me silently that he has it under control.
The patio is my favorite bit. The sun shines like it’s been doing all afternoon, and people were already taking pictures by the well, just as I’d hoped. Frank stands nearby with Nush’s petition, explaining in his teacher voice about what we’re trying to do.
“There’s the star of the show.”
I turn to see Harry walking toward me, his partner Richie at his side. Harry’s husband is a devastatingly handsome, soft-spoken librarian, and I’m still not sure how Harry got him to marry him. A few people are already ogling the man, and Harry, instead of appearing jealous, only seems smug.
I give them both a hug, my eyes straying to the drink in Harry’s hand. “I thought you only drank on special occasions.”
“Is this not a special occasion?” He gestures wildly as he says it, the liquid (a whiskey sour by the looks of things), sloshing dangerously.
“How many of those have you had?”
“I don’t know; it’s an open bar.”
“No, it’s not,” I say sharply, but he’s already grinning, enjoying teasing me.
“That’s his first,” Richie assures me. “He’s just excited. I think he’s had too much fresh air.”
“Just reconnecting with my true village self,” Harry says. “How are you doing? No stress hives, at least.”
“That you can see,” I retort. “And I feel awful. I hate being in charge. Never let me be in charge of anything again.”
“It all looks great,” Richie assures me, and I nod, needing every bit of reassurance I can get.
“Did you see the village?” I ask. “How long have you guys been here?”
“About an hour or so?” Harry turns to Richie, who nods. “We’ve been taking in the atmosphere. Trying to find a third person to join us in the bedroom.”
“He’s joking,” Richie says pleasantly, but Harry’s still glancing about the crowd.
“Am I?”
“I’m afraid we didn’t have that option on the forms.”
“Maybe next year,” he says with a wink. “But what about him.” He points to a well-dressed older man talking animatedly a few people away.
“Too good-looking,” Richie dismisses. “You’ll get nervous.”
“I’ll getwhat?”
“No propositioning the guests,” I say firmly. “Jokingly or not.”
“Well, that’s no fun.”
