Page 111 of My Best French Wedding

“No, Hildy. I’m just plain agreeing with you.”

“Oh.”

“I know. Someone should alert the media.”

She fished her phone out of her pocket. “Note to self: On this date at way-too-early o’clock, Walter Burns finally acknowledged my superior reasoning skills.”

He was tempted to give her more reasons to gloat, just so she’d keep looking at him like that, but he needed to build his case in a semiorganized fashion. Hildy liked a plan. Or at least, she likedherplans. Walter would have to hope she could appreciate one that happened to be about and for her, even if she wasn’t doing the scheming. Maybe it would be a nice change of pace, like when someone made a humble home-cooked meal for a professional chef.

Fiona and Robbie came scampering over from their labyrinth walk, hand in hand and glowing with happiness. Their bare feet were speckled with grass.

“I love my secret wedding,” Fiona informed them, not for the first time.

“Secret time, secret place.” Robbie shook his hips to a beat only he could hear.

“Secret vows.” His bride touched her lips before pressing her hand to her heart, as though tucking away the words only she and Robbie had heard before Maude used her hastily obtained online credentials to pronounce them husband and wife. “And I don’t even have to be sad it’s over, because I’m having a whole other wedding.”

“Bonus wedding!” Hildy held up her free hand for a high five.

“With all the pretty horses,” Robbie chimed in, spinning his bride.

“I’m going to be sitting there getting my hair done, and while everyone messes with me, I’ll be hiding the best, biggest secret.” Fiona turned to Robbie, taking his other hand like they were about to play ring-around-the-rosy.

“We got mar-ried,” she chanted.

Robbie quickly joined in, breaking off only to throw a hopeful look at Walter. “Do you have any maracas?”

He shook his head. Procuring predawn croissants and champagne and transportation and sneaking the bride and groom outof the hotel—especially on top of Walter’s other preparations—had exhausted his resourcefulness.

They watched Fiona and Robbie waltz across the grass. Maude and her Frenchman had already wandered off, ostensibly to look at an interesting shrub, but they weren’t fooling anyone. Walter wondered if Hildy had noticed they were the last two people who hadn’t paired off. When he snuck a glance, she was raising the champagne bottle to her lips.

“Oops,” she said. “Last sip.”

“That’s okay. I was done.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. You don’t know the French rule about finishing a bottle?”

“I must have missed that day at finishing school.”

“I’ll give you a hint, Man of the People. It’s like catching the bouquet.” She raised the bottle, squinting at the green glass. “Might be a couple of drops left. I should give this to Maude, so she can be the next one headed down the aisle.”

Walter plucked the bottle from her hands, upending it into his mouth. The barest hint of sweetness hit his tongue.

“Problem solved,” he announced, setting the bottle on the grass.

She blinked at him. “Okay, then. Let me know where to send your gift.”

“I will.” He offered her his hand. “Can I have this dance?”

“There’s no music.”

“I’ll hum.” He kicked off his shoes. “I hear dancing barefoot in the grass is something everyone should experience at least once.”

“Maybe I do it all the time. I could be the scourge of golf courses everywhere.”

“But you’ve never danced with me.” He let a hint of challenge creep into the words.

“Fine.” She tossed her hair, a gesture he recognized as Hildy’s version of cracking her knuckles. “If you insist.”