Except apparently I do.
“Mama,” Livy says slowly, watching me far too closely.
“What?”
“You got quiet again.”
“I was thinking.”
“About Mr. Moretti?”
“No.”
She stares.
“Maybe.”
Her grin spreads slowly.
“Oh my goodness, stop looking like that,” I tell her.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re planning my wedding.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“I’m just thinking he’d be a good husband.”
“Olivia.”
“And he could probably toss you over his shoulder when you get stubborn.”
“Olivia Marie.”
“What? That was on the list.”
“There is no list.”
“Of course there is.”
I point my pen at her. “Go do something.”
“Fine,” she says, but she walks away smiling.
Lord help me.
The radio crackles at my hip.
“Front gate volunteers are ready,” one of the teens says. “We’ve got people waiting.”
My pulse jumps.
This is it.
All the weeks of planning. The flyers. The social media posts. The begging local businesses for donations. The late nights making signs with Livy at the kitchen table. The worry that no one would come. The worry that too many people would come.
