Page 17 of A Week To Wed
Lincoln explodes. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there! When are you going to get that through your head? Get on back to the house.”
“No.”
“Maisy, give me the reins.”
“Not until you answer me.”
Solomon steps toward Lincoln as he reaches for the reins in my hands, and I pull back. In the process, I unthinkingly let go of the binder. It slips from my grip. Gasping, I grab for it, but it’s too late.
My ten-pound wedding binder, the thing I’ve been working on since I was thirteen years old, seems to fall to the ground in slow motion, turning and twisting through the air. Papers slip free of plastic sheets and catch in the wind. Fabric swatches and magazine clippings flutter around like confetti. The remains finally land, spread eagle, pages down, into the mud.
The sight is so disheartening I simply sit there with my jaw hanging open. I look around, and half the contents are stuck in the mud, the rest still airborne.
It’s ruined. All of that work. Completely gone.
“I…”
“Maisy,” Lincoln croaks.
“Our wedding…it’s…gone.” A cold wetness soaks my cheek, and I feel a sting in my throat. The tears I’ve been holding back can’t be stopped any longer. The dam is broken.
I dismount Solomon and tearfully pick up my binder, gingerly turning it over to see the mud-caked rings and sheets.
“Ah shit. Maisy, don’t cry.” Lincoln comes down off of Lady and steps toward me.
I want to punch him in the chest, and I want to scream. But on the other hand, this is all my fault. I shouldn’t have tried to track him down. I should take over entirely and never ask his opinion — just like what my mother and Godfrey did to me. I trudge away as he calls after me.
I pick up one sheet of notes, splattered with mud and probably also poop. Tears rain down from my face onto the page, making a brown mixture that smears the ink in the most pathetic way possible.
I scan the horizon and see pages, business cards, trinkets, and litter twisting in the wind. My throat is tight as tears flow from my nose and eyes. I draw in a shuddering breath. It’s all gone. Receipts. Contracts. Invoices. All of it.
I stand in the mud in the middle of a smelly pasture, blubbering like a fool.
ChapterTen
Lincoln
Talking to women is tough enough for me. A crying one?
Shit. This is so far out of my skill set that it might as well be rocket science.
“Maisy, come on now. Quit your crying.”
“Why do you have to be so mean to me!”
So, that didn’t work.
I curse under my breath and tug off my gloves, then untie the hankie from around my neck.
“Here. Ah shit. I don’t know what to do here, sweetheart.”
At the term of endearment, she seems to cry harder. She takes the sweaty hankie and squeaks, “Thank you.” So, that’s something.
“Maisy,” is all I can say.
I’ve never stood this close to someone who was crying this hard. Her shoulders jerk with every sob. This woman is wracked with grief.
“There, there,” I say woodenly, patting her shoulder. It’s meant as compassion, but it just comes off as stupid.
