Out of the car, Libby reached across the back seat for her cameras. As she closed the door, the wind picked up, sending a soft breeze through the trees. She glanced toward the river and saw the thick band of gray clouds in the distance.
“You headed up to the house?” Libby asked.
“I am. You’ll find me in the kitchen.”
Libby hoisted her bags on her shoulders and wondered if she should grab the extra umbrellas from the trunk. “See you around.”
“Did the bride and groom bury a bottle of moonshine in the garden?” Sierra slipped a white apron over her head and tied the ends around her narrow waist.
“There was some talk of that at the walk-through, but the groom forgot about it. What’s the deal with that?”
Sierra shook her head, as if concerned. “It’s the moonshine graveyard, which is a bit of a tradition in these parts. If you want good luck on your wedding day, then you bury a bottle of hooch in the garden.”
Maybe Libby and her ex-husband, Jeremy, should have buried a bottle or two on their big day. “So what happens if they don’t?”
Sierra nodded toward the clouds. “Rain. Divorce. Locusts. The whole nine yards of bad mojo.”
“Terrific.”
Sierra waved away Libby’s sour expression. “I say screw the law of attraction. And who needs a moonshine graveyard?” Sierra said, smiling. “That storm is at least two hours away, which puts us safely under cover should it hit.”
Libby opted to leave the umbrellas behind but hustled up the front steps to shoot the first-look pictures; thunder rumbled on cue in the distance.
CHAPTER THREE
LIBBY
Saturday, June 6, 2020
The Woodmont Estate
The morning pre-wedding shoot had gone longer than she had expected. Note to self—add to worst-case-scenario list: Grandmother of the groom gets drunk on mimosas. Now they were fifteen minutes from kickoff, and guests had almost filled the white wooden garden chairs facing the hill that sloped down toward the river.
When the house had been built in the eighteenth century, the main entrance had faced the river, which had been the superhighway of its day. Travelers had come and gone by the river. What was now the main road leading to the Woodmont Estate had been little more than a deer path in the days of Ezra Carter. Modern transportation had moved on, but the house remained steadfastly attached to its origins.
The DJ’s speakers emitted the music of a string quartet playing “Are You Gonna Be My Girl.” The DJ and his main soundboard were wisely set up inside the main house.
Over the last couple of years, Libby had become accustomed to the songs most couples played at their weddings, and after a while, she had recognized a sameness to the songs. Most couples aspired to be different on their special day, but nearly all fell into predictable patterns.
She looked over her shoulder at the swollen dark clouds moving toward them. At this point the quartet should have been playing the theme to Jaws. “Duunnn, duunnn.” No amount of positive thinking or mason jars of moonshine buried in the dirt was going to stop this beast from rolling over the top of the wedding.
Another clap of thunder had Libby looking toward the parking lot, where her SUV remained stocked with the umbrellas. She checked her watch. If she ran, she could make it to her car and return with the umbrellas with time to spare. She looked again at the angry sky. Decision made—as the quartet’s next song, “I Will Always Love You,” began—she turned on her heels and took off running toward her car as the thick scent of approaching rain surrounded her.
The first raindrop hit the top of her head as she opened the back of her SUV. She quickly snapped waterproof cases over her cameras and gathered up the umbrellas in her arms. As she nudged the liftgate button with her foot, a loud clap of thunder cracked across the sky.
Juggling umbrellas and her cameras, she saw the storm dumping rain on the other side of the river. She started to run. Heat and thick humidity formed a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades and on her upper lip.
More water droplets fell on Libby’s head as she dashed toward the wedding, hoping to at least get the bride, mother of the bride, and groom under cover.
The wedding march suddenly began, ten minutes ahead of schedule. At most weddings, she had a second shooter on hand to catch the images from a different angle. But Ginger had been certain Libby did not need the extra shooter. Now Libby was not in a position to catch any part of the ceremony. If she delayed another minute, she would miss the entire main event.
A red truck rumbled up behind her and stopped. “Get in,” the driver said.
She recognized the man as the estate manager, Colton Reese—the bride’s brother. He was dressed in a dark suit and white shirt but wore no tie. Dark hair brushed back behind his ears, drawing attention to a face that was not exactly handsome but somehow very attractive.
Two weeks ago, Colton had had little to say at the walk-through. He had listened to his sister’s ideas and patiently agreed to rent the chairs. He had wanted to also secure a tent, but Ginger had told him not to bother.
“Why aren’t you at the ceremony?” she asked.
“I saw you take off running. You’re either abandoning ship, or you could use the backup. Which is it?”
“Backup.” She tossed her umbrellas in the bed of the truck and climbed inside.
“It’s going to open up,” she said.
“Yes, it is.” Colton’s trim body leaned over his steering wheel as he stared up at the sky. “It’s coming across the river fast.”
“They’re starting the ceremony early.”
“That was Ginger’s call. Too bad there’s no tent.”
“Drive it like you stole it. I’ve got to get there.”
Colton grinned, punched the accelerator, and raced toward the darkening sky. He was in his mid- to late thirties, and she supposed his perpetual frown added a dangerous kind of vibe loved by the ladies. “I warned them this morning to have the ceremony inside.”
“Your gardens are the reason Ginger wanted to be outside.” Droplets splattered on the windshield, flattening into large watery pancakes.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“You pass out the umbrellas, and I’ll keep shooting,” Libby instructed. “Bride first; mother of the bride second. Then go for anyone who looks like a grandmother. The men get served last.”
“Just like the Titanic.” He parked within twenty feet and hustled around the side of the truck just as the sky opened up, pelting down rain. Some guests held their programs over their heads, trying to hold off through the ceremony. Others were already dashing to the estate’s narrow front porch, which was quickly filling up.
Colton opened an umbrella and handed it to her. She held it in one hand and raised her camera with the other. She was shooting as the mother of the bride walked her daughter quickly down the aisle. Colton handed his mother an umbrella, but the bride refused hers as she walked to the arch and her waiting groom. They both were laughing as their guests started racing toward the safety of the house’s front porch.
Libby gave up on trying to hold an umbrella and shoot. Instead she handed it to a hapless guest hurrying past her and moved up the center aisle, past the emptying seats, toward the bride and groom.