Page 3 of The Grump Next Door
My smile stretches, real this time. “You’re just saying that because I once made a cake designer cry.”
“You’re my hero,” she says. “Now go charm the pants off the Hudson Valley. Call me tonight and tell me all about your mysterious grump of a property owner.”
Oh. I’d almost forgotten about that.
I’ll be staying in the guest house of the groom’s brother. Dean Whitaker. A Manhattan divorce attorney who owns the estate and according to my clients, tolerates weddings the way people tolerate dental work. We haven’t spoken yet, but I’ve seen the emails. Short. Direct. Zero emojis. He probably irons his socks and uses phrases likeper my last message.
In my head, he’s uptight, stiff, probably wears loafers and looks perpetually disappointed. The kind of guy who thinks kombucha is a gateway drug and prefers his coffee black, his shoes polished, and his interactions with people limited.
It’s fine. I’ve dealt with difficult venue managers before. People who think wedding planners are frivolous or invasive or too much.
Dean Whitaker has no idea who he’s dealing with.
The GPS chirps that my exit is in two miles. Two miles until I have to walk into this situation and pretend everything’s fine. Pretend I’m still Poppy Monroe, wedding planner extraordinaire, not Poppy Monroe, unemployed disaster who’s about to commit fraud.
I glance down at my shoes again. Image is everything in this business. Fake it ‘til you make it. Smile ‘til your face cracks.
Speaking of which.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and practice. Bright smile. Professional. Capable. Not at all like someone whose entire world just collapsed.
“Hi! I’m Poppy Monroe, your wedding planner! Everything’s perfect! I definitely have a job! And a plan! And my life together!”
Shit.
My phone buzzes again. I ignore it.
Then again. And again.
I finally glance down at it.
Six missed calls. Twelve texts from various vendors. One from my landlord about next month’s rent.
Cool. Cool. Cool.
I take the exit too fast. The tires squeal a little. Whatever. Add it to the rental company’s list of grievances.
The scenery changes from highway to postcard—rolling hills, stone walls, trees that look like they were placed by a set designer. It’s gorgeous. Peaceful. The exact opposite of how I feel.
I roll my shoulders back and take in the scenery of where I’ll be spending the next ten days. Towering trees and winding roads lined with wildflowers. The hills ripple gold and green in the late afternoon light, and for a moment, I pretend I’m headed to a wellness retreat. One where no one’s texting me about linen shortages or whether the girlfriend of a groomsman is allergic to all seven major food groups.
The peace lasts exactly eight seconds before my phone buzzes again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Hey just fyi we might need to reassign bridesmaids. Caroline and Zoe are in a feud. Again. No clue why.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Maybe over a dress? Or like… someone’s ex?
I don’t respond.
Because if I respond, I will scream.
The GPS chirps, “You have arrived at your destination.”
I pull up the long gravel driveway and my breath catches a little.
Because—despite everything—it’s stunning.
The estate sits atop of a soft, sloping hill, framed by tall oaks and wild hydrangea. The main house is older but elegant, all crisp white trim and classic shutters, with ivy crawling up one side like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie. There’s a detached guest house just beyond a stretch of manicured lawn, the exact right amount of rustic charm.
