Page 15 of My Best French Wedding

“Okay, Machiavelli.”

Hildy’s conscience gave a guilty twinge. She generally preferred to use her powers for good. “Blame Walter! He’s forcing me to take the gloves off.”

Corinne fell into a ruminative silence. Hildy wasn’t sure whether she was silently judging or looking for landmarks as they zoomed past green hillsides dotted with occasional signs proudly advertising the local gastronomy. Ducks! Wine! Walnuts! The French made no secret of their priorities in life.

Unlike some people Hildy could name, who specialized in being as opaque as possible, even when they were chasing you across two continents.

“What’s the deal with the sister?” Corinne asked.

“They’re close, but there’s a pretty big age gap. And then when their mom died, the dynamic totally shifted. Maude has a tendency to treat Fiona like a child.”

It was one of the first things Hildy and Fiona had bonded over, this strange combination of being motherless and yet surrounded by controlling relatives. Although the circumstances were not identical, since Fiona’s father was still alive and her mother had died of natural causes, as opposed to signing away parental rights to continue her career as an ethnographer in a remote South American rainforest while Hildy was raised by an overbearing uncle and succession of step-aunts, plus two boneheaded cousins who treated her like a combination little sister and household pet.

Everybody had their own story—as Hildy had pointed outmore than once during an editorial meeting. In her case, there was even a peer-reviewed journal article about her disappearing parent’s decision to “repudiate the first-world Western trap of the patriarchal nuclear family” to pursue the “higher goal” of research. Maybe if her mom (aka the egg donor) had known Hildy’s father was a few short years from a fatal car accident, she might have stuck around. Or not! It wasn’t like Hildy had a window into her mother’s thoughts, beyond what she’d shared with the rest of the world.

Hildy assumed her coloring and her curls were her mother’s legacy, since she didn’t resemble the rest of the Johnson clan. Sometimes she worried she’d also inherited her missing parent’s relentless ambition, though hopefully Hildy was less cold-blooded about it. If she had to manipulate Fiona, it would be gently—and with her best interests at heart. As well as Hildy’s. And her magazine’s.

“I mean in terms of Walter,” Corinne clarified. “What’s his connection with the sister?”

“They met at a wedding.” Hildy made a conscious effort to loosen her grip on the steering wheel. “Remember the nouveau agrarian paradise bride last fall? That was Maude’s cousin.”

“Met as in they were introduced or…?” Corinne let the question trail off, though they both knew what she was really asking: Did they hook up or what?

“Allegedly he was interviewing her,” Hildy said, before Corinne could go there. “Aboutplants.”

Corinne snorted as if she’d heard that line before. It was gratifying to know Hildy wasn’t the only one who found that excuse a little thin.

6Hildy

TEN MONTHS AGO

NEW HOPE, Pa.—There were farms and then there werefarms, Hildy reflected, taking in the scene. A perfect blue sky, a puff or two of white clouds, blowsy flowers and rippling grass, rustic indoor furniture arranged on the lawn in conversational vignettes: The effect was very urban-sophisticate-moves-to-the-country-to-grow-a-perfect-pint-of-berries. Which she would then sell at the farmer’s market and somehow earn enough to support her chenin blanc habit.

Hildy would watch the shit out of that movie, but this was supposed to be real life. Or at least the aesthetic version of “real.” They had animals and everything, including a trio of sheep so immaculately groomed they could have competed at the Westminster Kennel Club. Were there stylists who specialized in livestock, or did they pay a human beautician to give the animals a blowout? She made a mental note to investigate further for a possible feature. Today, she had a different agenda.

“Earthy but sophisticated,” she murmured. “Natural without the tang of dirt. The mason jar aesthetic on steroids, refreshed and rejuvenated. A kale smoothie for the eyes.”

Naturally, Walter chose that moment to stroll around an artistic arrangement of hay bales. He acted surprised at seeing her there.

“Friend of the bride?” he asked.

“I have a lot of friends,” Hildy replied, with what she hoped was an air of mystery. If he thought she was there to party, like the spoiled socialite he presumed her to be, it would blindside him whenLife, Styledpublished their superior coverage.

Walter stared into the distance, as though captivated by the miniature donkey being led on a harness like this year’s goldendoodle. Guests could “borrow” one for the day, if they wanted to add a little animal husbandry to their sojourn in the country. Hildy had been tempted, but she needed both hands free for taking notes.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Hildy said, with a transparently false smile.

“Why? Are you here with someone?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Just making conversation.”

As if either of them ever said anything to the other without packing in at least two layers of hidden meaning. Every sentence was a baklava of sneak attacks and coded insults. “I’m surprised you made it out of the last one alive.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

She shrugged, watching his eyes catch on the sweetheart neckline of her gingham sundress. “Hopefully you won’t catch anything from the livestock.”