"Harper'smiddle name?" Luna stares at the question card. "Who knows anyone's middle name?"
"People who listen," Maren says, already scribbling her answer.
We're sitting at a long barrel-topped table in the outdoor tasting pavilion, surrounded by rolling green hills and grapevines that go on forever. Our personal sommelier, a tiny beta woman in a linen apron, keeps topping off our glasses between rounds of "How Well Do You Know the Bride?" which Luna insisted on, organized entirely, and is now losing spectacularly.
Harper is glowing at the head of the table. Not metaphorically. She's wearing this soft cream sundress and the late-morning light is making cute, tiny freckles appear on her skin. She's clearly enjoying herself, throwing her head back, laughing, every time someone gets an answer wildly wrong.
"It's Delphine," I say, flipping my card around at the questionWhat's Harper's middle name?.
Harper points at me. "Beth! Yes!"
"Harper Delphine Whitfield," I say. "It's on the custom stationery you made me help you pick out for your wedding reception.
"That should not count," Luna says. "That's insider information, I'm filing a formal protest."
"Denied," Maren says, and marks a point on her scoresheet.
The sommelier pours another round. Becca, one of Harper's childhood friends, reads the next card.
"What is Harper's most irrational fear?"
"Clowns," Luna says out loud, not writing anything. "She cried at her niece's fifth birthday because the entertainment showed up in a rainbow wig and a red nose."
"It doesn't count, you have towrite it down," Maren says.
"I'm going to need to see a ruling on that," Luna says. "Harper?"
"You can have that one," Harper grins.
Maren and I flip our cards over. Both say "Clowns."
I am winning by three points. And I'm pretty happy about myself. Plus, the wine is excellent. Every few minutes someone pulls me into a side conversation: Becca wants my opinion on peonies versus garden roses for Harper's reception tables, one of Harper's college friends wants to know if the glamping tents have electricity.
I take another sip of wine, lean back in my chair, and let the heat settle into my arms. The hills are green, the sky is open, and for the first time in a long time, I'm not thinking about anything other than exactly where I am.
Which is, of course, the precise moment a voice cuts through the air behind me, high and breathy.
"Oh my god, you guys come here too?"
***
My gut instinct is to keep my eyes on the vineyard. Stare at the grapevines until they rearrange into a portal to another dimension and I can crawl through it.
I don't turn around. Instead, I watch Harper's college friend glances between us, sensing the shift but not understanding it.
The sommelier, blessed woman, pauses mid-pour.
And thenJessicais rounding the end of our table. White eyelet dress, wedge sandals adding about four unnecessary inches to her supermodel height, her hair doing that thing where it looks like she just rolled out of a Dyson Airwrap commercial. Sunglasses are pushed up on her head and her smile wide enough to see from the parking lot.
"Harper!" She extends both arms. "I hadno ideayou'd be out here this weekend! This issocrazy!"
Harper, to her eternal credit, accepts the hug without going rigid. "Jessica. Hi. Wow."
"I keep saying we need to get together," Jessica says, one hand still on Harper's arm, surveying the table like she's been invited. Her gaze moves down the row and then lands on me.
"Beth.Oh my gosh. Hi." She smiles even wider.
"Hi, Jessica," I say, and my voice sounds almost normal.
