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I’m already reaching for my phone, dialing up January, who is the more level-headed of the couple. That’s not saying much, but I’ll take any edge I can get.
“Jan,” I say when she answers.
“It’s Maria,” the voice on the other end of the phone says. Maria is Jan’s personal assistant, best friend, and maid of honor. I personally think it’s ill-advised to put so many eggs in one basket, living in the den of snakes that is Hollywood, but it seems to work for them.
“Maria,” I say, relieved. “It’s Shane. I saw the video.”
“That fucker,” she growls.
“Please tell me it’s just a blip.”
“It’s not just a blip. It’s the last straw in a very, very large hay bale.”
“No,” I say, and Hanna groans on the other side of the desk.
“Can you put January on?” I ask.
“January is not taking phone calls right now,” Maria says.
I rub my free hand over my face. “Please, Maria,” I beg. “If you help me make this wedding happen, I will ensure that you and all your friends have gainful employment in film for the rest of eternity.”
She snorts. “That’s a really generous offer, Shane, but it doesn’t do me any good.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not going to change January’s mind.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask.
“Because Lilla is pregnant with Tobias’s baby, and they’re getting married this afternoon. At Lilla’s parents’ estate.”
5
Shane
When I hang up the phone with Maria, I turn my attention to Hanna across the desk. Her head is in her hands.
“How much of that did you hear?” I ask.
“I couldn’t hear any of her end,” she says without lifting her face from her palms. “But you said, ‘How can you be so sure?’ and then your face went this really awful vanilla-pudding color, so the answer couldn’t have been anything good.”
I relay the news about Lilla’s pregnancy and impending nuptials. Hanna just shakes her head, still buried in her hands.
My chest feels like someone installed a concrete block in it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as I’ve gotten to know my sister again over these last few months, it’s that Hanna loves her job. She and my grandfather built this empire on the former Hott ranchland, and she’s its undisputed queen. There’s a lodge and a big wedding barn, the Hott Spot spa and salon, staff cottages, and campgrounds. There are weddings here almost every weekend all summer, well into the fall and spring, and during the holiday season. She has a staff of over a hundred now and loads of partnerships and relationships she’s built one blunt, no-nonsense interaction at a time.
I can’t fail her.
“I’m going to find a new couple,” I say.
“How the hell are you going to do that?”
Still, she raises her face from her hands, hope filling her blue-green eyes.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’m going to do it.”
“Hanna,” a voice says from the doorway. It’s Julia, Hott Springs’s office receptionist and all around keeper-of-order, a tall dark-skinned woman whose voice still holds the flavor of Jamaica, where she grew up. “Eva Scott is here to see you.”
“Eva Scott?” Hanna says. “Like the Eva Scott—of Bridge?”
