Page 65 of My Best French Wedding

Maude tipped her head, acknowledging the apology with surprising equanimity. “Fee is stronger than she looks. Yes, she’s invested in this idea of making everything perfect and shiny and beautiful, but that doesn’t mean she’s in denial about the fact that life doesn’t always work that way.”

“Of course not,” Hildy murmured. Wanting your world to be aesthetically and spiritually harmonious didn’t mean you were a superficial person. Or that you were trying too hard to give reality a glow-up because of your fundamental immaturity and unwillingness to grapple with hard truths. No matter what people said in the comments.

“I think she hoped her wedding would be an exception, but Fee will bounce back.” Maude gave a rueful shrug. “Walter tells me chaos is part of the process.”

He’d know. Hildy kept that thought to herself.

“About Walter… and me,” she began. “I appreciate you trying to help, but this is one of those situations where you get shot with an arrow and it can’t be removed without doing more damage. The only solution is to break off the sticking-out part and get on with your life.” Hildy was pretty sure she’d seen that in a movie.

“Or it could be a splinter,” Maude pointed out. “You need to get it out so you can heal.”

It wasn’t the argument that struck Hildy so much as the tone. “Are you big-sistering me?”

“Sorry. Is that annoying?”

“I like it, actually.” That didn’t change the fact that despite what Maude or Corinne or anyone else might believe, Hildy and Walter weren’t going to kiss and make up. Flowers didn’t spring from the ashes if you’d spent years sprinkling salt all over them. And napalm. “Fiona’s lucky to have you.”

“On that note, I’d better go check on her.” Maude’s smile was guarded, like she didn’t want to get Hildy’s hopes up. “Good luck.”

As soon as Walter opened the door to her knock, Hildy slipped past him, noting very casually with her keen observational skills as a journalist that his hair was still damp from the shower, and he smelled like honey and thyme. That would be the body wash from the wedding guest welcome hamper, though she didn’t remember the scent being quite that mouthwatering straight from the bottle.

While Walter closed the door behind her, Hildy took the opportunity to snoop. His room wasn’t identical to hers in the soulless copycat fashion of an American hotel chain, but the décor had a similar weathered coziness: reading chair, thick rug, painted wardrobe, big fluffy bed. She took all of this in at a glance, because Walter was apparently the kind of neat freak who used actual hangers and drawers instead of scattering his personal items over every surface. A total bust on the espionage front, but then that wasn’t the main purpose of this visit.

“You have an idea,” Walter guessed, before she could launch into her preamble.

Hildy felt compelled to disagree, because it was rude to see through someone as though they were dressed in head-to-toe plastic wrap. “I wouldn’t call it anidea. This is more of an agenda. Or—a plan of attack.”

“I’m all ears.” He gestured for her to take the chair.

“We need to table this.” She circled a hand between them.

He copied the gesture, brows lifting in question. “This?”

“The fighting. Friction. Occasionally immature behavior. Our whole deal. Just until the wedding’s over,” she added, in case he thought this was a permanent ceasefire.

Walter didn’t answer right away. She would have given a lot to be able to unscrew a panel on the side of his head and spy on his thought process.

“Do you really think that’s possible?” he finally asked.

“What I think is that it doesn’t look good for either of our brands to derail the wedding of the century.”

“Is that your main concern?”

Her heart beat a little faster, sensing danger. “As opposed to what?”

“Fiona and Robbie’s personal happiness.”

“What am I, Lady Macbeth? Of course I care about them. My plans have layers. It’s a hallmark of my style.”

“How do you see this playing out?” he asked, after another loaded silence.

“We declare a truce. Right now, tonight, just the two of us. Grab a pair of your tightie-whities and wave them around like a flag.”

“Nice try. I’m not showing you my underwear. Which are not white, by the way.”

“Have you tried OxyClean?”

“Why Hildy, don’t tell me you’ve started doing your own laundry?”