A Wedding in Truhart

Book 1: Truhart Novel

by Cynthia Tennent

Genres: Women's Fiction; Siblings; Sports Romance

Synopsis

"Charm, humor, loyalty, and love" --Cindy Myers, author of The View From Here

Welcome to Truhart . . .
 
Welcome to Truhart, Michigan, population 1300 and dropping. Where everyone knows everyone else and garage sales are front page news. Not exactly where you’d expect to find the celebrity wedding of the year.  As Maid of Honor, and the famous bride’s big sister, Annie has to plan a wedding suitable for America’s newest sweetheart reporter on The Morning Show. But what she didn’t plan on was seeing Nick Conrad again. Her older brother’s best friend who left Truhart for the big city, Nick just happens to be Annie’s embarrassing childhood crush. He’s also the Best Man.
 
As Atlanta’s High Society descends on the tiny Midwest town, Annie has the impossible task of controlling her eccentric family and nutty neighbors, while hosting a wedding fit for a princess at her family’s rundown Amble Inn. But what she can’t control is the spark reigniting between her and Nick. Between snowstorms, an A.W.O.L. gown, and the broadcast of the wedding on The Morning Show, Annie is just hoping to survive the big day without losing her mind. And to survive being around Nick again without losing her heart.

Praise for A Wedding in Truhart
 
“Cynthia Tennent has captured the charm, humor, loyalty, and love of small towns, close families, and long-time friends. Annie, Nick, and the rest of the people of Truhart will find a place in your heart.”
—Cindy Myers, author of The View From Here
 
“An A.W.O.L. wedding dress, family feuds, and kinky characters! What's not to love? A Wedding in Truhart is a wedding to remember.”
—Lois Greiman, award winning author of the Hope Springs series

Release date: September 29, 2015

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 240

Sample

We were late to the dinner party and I was crushed between my great-aunt and my mother in the backseat of a battered taxi stuck in the slow lane.

“Is my bra twisted, Annie? Something feels like it has a hold on my left bosom and it can’t be a man!” The setting sun glared off Aunt Addie’s purplish gray hair. I never should have let her dye her own hair last week.

“Let me see what’s going on.” I shifted my position in the sweltering cab and cringed as I lost a layer of skin on the vinyl seat. Opening the back of my aunt’s dress, I took a look at the massive brassiere that was surely more complicated than a seventy-six-year-old woman needed. “You’re caught up in the sleeve. Give me a moment to fix this.”

“Take your time, my dear. That air is like heaven on my back. Who in their right mind would live in a city that feels like a furnace?”

Our taxi driver convulsively stepped on the brakes and all three of us lurched forward as we crawled through seven lanes of rush-hour traffic on I-75 in Atlanta. I dodged Aunt Addie’s head and Mom’s shoulder, attempting to fix the bra, and felt a bead of sweat trickle from my armpit to my elbow. The driver leered at me through the rearview mirror.

“Just remember, this weekend is for Charlotte. We can handle a little August heat. Besides, Atlanta will be a lovely place for a wedding next spring,” Mom said as I finished with the bra.

“With all your brains and talent I always thought you were going to be the one to live in the big city,” said my great-aunt, nudging me with her elbow.

I bit my lip and let Aunt Addie’s words roll off me. I’d buried my regrets years ago. The same year we buried Dad.

“I’ll remind you about this heat next February when it’s ten below and there’s three feet of snow on the ground at home,” said Mom as she reached behind her back to fasten the top of her own dress. My mother, Virginia Adler, was attractive and calm, even with a layer of perspiration on her face. I had only seen her fall apart once, and a little heat like this wasn’t going to rattle her cool composure.

Was it just this morning that we left our inn before dawn and drove three hours to get to the Flint airport? Unfortunately our luckless journey had only begun. Our flight from Flint was behind schedule and the connecting flight in Detroit was delayed too. I guess that’s what we should have expected after buying tickets on a website called ElCheapoFare.com. Now, we were getting dressed in the backseat of a steamy cab as we finished the final leg of our journey.

Sometimes I think my family avoids luck as if it is a nasty four-letter word. Well, I guess it actually is a four-letter word. But so is love, and we have plenty of that. I just wished love came with air-conditioning and a restroom to change in.

A dinner tonight, wedding-dress shopping tomorrow, and a wedding shower the following night. The long weekend was going to be a whirlwind. I leaned back against the seat and angled my head to catch a breeze coming through the window, marveling at the fact that my baby sister, Charlotte, called this home. It still was hard to imagine anyone from Truhart, population thirteen hundred and dropping, living in a Southern city like Atlanta.

For the past few years, my focus had been on my family and keeping our inn running smoothly. And now I had another goal. I was going to make sure this wedding was everything my little sister dreamed it would be.

At last we pulled up under a large gilded marquee that marked the entrance to the Ambassador Hotel of Atlanta. A man in a dark suit held open the back door of the cab and all three of us awkwardly slid across the sticky seat. By the time my mother disembarked she had to push Aunt Adelaide and me out of the way; we were momentarily frozen in place as we stared through the open glass doors at an opulent room that was nothing like the rustic lobby of our inn back home.

The man cast his eyes over Aunt Addie and her purplish gray hair piled on top of her head, the way she had worn it since the bicentennial of the nation. Then he cast a glance at the three sorry-looking carry-on bags the driver had tossed onto the sidewalk.

“May I help you, ladies?”

My mother stood up straighter. “Yes, you can. My daughter and her fiancé are hosting a special dinner for family and close friends.”

“Oh, of course, in the Governor’s Room. Will you be staying here tonight?”

“Actually, no,” I said. It had been hard enough to scrape together money for the airfare; there was no way we could afford this place.

The man nodded and offered to store our luggage, but Aunt Addie refused to be parted with hers. She insisted that we hold on to them, and my mother and I knew that arguing with her was futile when she had that look in her eye. So we followed suit and shouldered the bags. I cringed to think what Charlotte’s guests would think.

Like zombies we shuffled through the main lobby and shivered when the air-conditioning hit us with a cold blast as we walked up a long, winding stairway overlooking the lobby. Standing near a curved bar was a group of elegantly dressed people who stopped talking and stared as we walked past.

I lifted my chin, trying to look as if we weren’t totally out of place.

Mom wore a pink cotton dress that she’d worn to our church’s fiftieth anniversary last spring. I wore my black go-to skirt with a wilting gauzy white blouse, a silver chain, and hoop earrings.

And then there was Aunt Addie.

Blue cabbage roses shouted out from her floral polyester dress, in stark contrast to the chic black elegance of the room around us. Wearing a dress with an elastic waistband that cinched her large girth, and sensible shoes, she looked like a 1950s throwback. No matter what Aunt Addie did to herself, she resembled a cross between Minnie Pearl and Betty White. Out of habit I double-checked my aunt for handwritten price tags from the church thrift store and safety pins that showed at the hem.

Then I saw Charlotte. She stood in an ornately framed doorway absently listening to an older man as she chewed on her lip and looked at her watch. She looked up and our eyes met.

“Annie!” she squealed, rushing our way.

My worries dissolved as I dropped my bag and closed the space between us. I forgot the imposing room and all the curious faces as we crushed each other in an embrace that brought tears to my eyes.

Almost a full year had passed since Charlotte had left Truhart for Atlanta to become the newest sweetheart correspondent on the nationally televised Morning Show. Every time I saw her face on TV, I still wanted to reach out and touch the screen to make sure it was real.

“It’s so good to see you,” we said at the same time.

“Jinx,” we said, then laughed.

We pulled apart and Charlotte was immediately captured in a hug from my mother and then Aunt Addie.

“I am so sorry we’re late! The plane out of Detroit was delayed and we did the best we could,” Mom explained.

“Oh, that’s all right, Mom. I’m just glad you’re here.” The smile Charlotte flashed us assured me she was the same blue-eyed angel who used to pour glitter in the sand traps at our inn’s golf course, to make pixie dust. But she had changed as well. Dressed in a black sleeveless dress with a chiffon overlay, her blond hair pulled back in a sophisticated chignon, she appeared every inch the celebrity she was becoming.

“You look wonderful, honey,” said Aunt Adelaide, grabbing Charlotte’s left hand. “Good Lord, that engagement ring is bigger than a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking. I’ll bet that didn’t come from the Sears catalogue like mine did.”

“And you should see the new car Henry bought me,” Charlotte exclaimed.

“Just in time! Annie is really excited to drive that SUV back up to Michigan. A new car for you and our old car back to us,” Mom said.

My car had broken down a month ago, and I had been pricing used cars in Gaylord. Now I could reclaim the Ford Escape my dad had bought ten years ago and take it back to Truhart.

“I still can’t believe you are getting married,” I said.

“Of course I wish you could have told us before you announced it on The Morning Show,” Mom added.

“That Marva O’Shea still brags about the fact that she knew about it before I did,” complained Aunt Addie.

Charlotte frowned. “Oh, Mom, I hope you didn’t mind too much!”

We all protested, of course. No point in making Charlotte feel guilty after the fact.

“This must be your family, darling.” The three of us stopped to stare as Charlotte’s fiancé joined her.

I was prepared to resent this man who was stealing our Charlotte away from Michigan for good. But something in the way he looked at her before he turned to greet us made me love him on sight. Adoration was written all over his face. It was as transparent as the picture window in the lobby of the Amble Inn after spring cleaning week. His blond hair was cropped short to his thinning hair line, and his broad shoulders made up for the fact that he wasn’t overly tall. He wore a sharp black suit with a starched white shirt and blue-and-gray striped tie, the perfect complement to Charlotte’s sleek style.

“Henry, this is my mother, Virginia, Aunt Adelaide, and, of course, Annie.”

I held out my hand politely, but Henry surprised us by swallowing each of us up in a big hug. His Southern drawl came with a whole hunk of charm, and Aunt Addie was already half in love.

“I am so sorry you didn’t get a chance to rest before this party,” Henry said.

An older woman stepped in front of Henry and held out her hand. I was overwhelmed by a heavy dose of expensive perfume and bling. Her wrists dripped with gold and matched the lamé trim on her formfitting dress. Her blond hair was pulled back and for a moment I wondered if the tight hairstyle was the reason no wrinkles showed around her eyes. But when she spoke and her generous upper lip barely moved, I had my answer.

“Why, it is so nice that you made the trip to our little part of the world. I am June, Henry’s mother.” We took turns reaching out for her limp hand and I winced when Aunt Addie shook it too hard and June Lowell flinched. June put her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders in a proprietary manner. “We just love Charlotte, our little Northern bride.” It sounded so old-fashioned that I resisted the urge to look around for hoopskirts. “Do y’all want to freshen up or change before the party? I know you probably didn’t have time.”

Something about the way she said the word party made my breath catch in my chest. I stole a glance at Charlotte. “This is just close friends and family, right?”

“Well, the Lowells have a lot of friends.” I could have sworn that her smile was painted on because it didn’t waver. I was conscious of the music and laughter in the room nearby.

Mom placed her hand over her heart. “Would that happen to be the Governor’s Room?”

June Lowell’s eyes darted to the pin on Aunt Addie’s dress, made of lace and shells. She had bought it at last year’s church craft show. “Why, yes. Everyone is so excited to meet you. But as I was saying, you are welcome to change in the ladies’ lounge.”

“No need to change. We’re fine,” said Mom with that hint of ice in her eyes that I recognized as stalwart Adler pride. “That is, unless you feel we should. We are late enough as it is . . .”

“Oh, you look lovely just as you are, Mrs. Adler. I can see where Charlotte gets her beauty. We wouldn’t want to miss your presence for another minute,” inserted Henry, giving his mother an annoyed look that lifted him up another notch in my estimation. “Let me get someone to take your bags so you can have a chance to relax.”

Henry signaled to one of the waiters, who put down his tray and held out his hand to take Mom’s bag. After I handed over my bag, he turned to Aunt Addie. She clutched hers with both hands and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. The young waiter looked startled when he saw her fierce expression, but Mom and I wrestled the bag from her death grip and looped it around his free arm.

A serious-faced young girl appeared at Henry’s elbow. “Virginia, Addie, Anne, I would like you to meet my little sister, Jessica,” Henry said. The girl was in her early teens and it was obvious that she wished she was anywhere else at the moment.

June pushed Jessica forward and I heard her whisper sharply, “Shoulders!” as the miserable girl readjusted her slouch. She was painfully thin and wore a purple dress dotted with sequins. It looked like something her mother might have picked for her. She held out her hand and greeted each one of us without actually looking us in the eye. Then she reached up to fiddle with her hair.

“Jessica, how nice to meet you,” my mother said warmly. “Are you in school in Atlanta?”

“Actually she boards at the Delaworth Academy in Connecticut.”

“Boards?” asked Aunt Addie. “Is that some kind of new sport these kids do?”

“No, she lives at a boarding school,” corrected June. “We flew her here for the weekend so she could come to the party.”

I tried to navigate the conversation away from any comment Aunt Addie might make about boarding school. “It must seem pretty strange to think of your big brother getting married, huh?”

Jessica nodded and looked over at Henry, showing emotion for the first time. Hero worship.

Henry reached over and patted her back. “Actually I keep telling her how great it will be for her to finally have a sister!”

Jessica’s glance shifted to Charlotte and I noted how Jessica shut down before Henry led us into the Governor’s Room.

As I paused on the threshold of the grand room, some sixth sense made me hesitate and glance to the side. A dark figure caught my eye and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

I was closer to thirty than twenty, a grown woman who was beyond acting like a star-crossed teenager. But even so, my heart sped up at the knowledge that Nicholas Conrad was coming toward me. Dozens of my diary entries between the ages of eight and fourteen were devoted to him. I knew everything about him: his favorite candy from the vending machine in the golf shack, his batting average on Harrison County High School’s baseball team, and the type of car soap he had used on his royal blue 1995 Grand Prix. I knew every girlfriend he took to homecoming and why they weren’t good enough for him.

And Nick? He didn’t even know my real name.

“Hi, Bump,” he said.

My unfortunate nickname was bestowed on me when I was five years old. I was playing with my stuffed animals along the large stone hearth in the cavernous pine lobby of the inn. My Puffalump teddy was being chased by Alf, the ugliest stuffed animal ever created. I’d like to blame it on Alf for being so aggressive, but I lost my footing and fell forehead first into the corner of a coffee table in front of the fireplace. The result was a substantial knot right in the middle of my forehead. The nickname “Bump” stuck.

So, there I was, with a droopy collar, hair sticking out on one side of my head, and a dried layer of sweat on my body, flashing a crooked smile at a man who called me Bump.

He leaned forward to kiss my cheek at the same time I reached out to grab his shoulders for a hug. We ended up colliding in an awkward nose-smashing greeting. I laughed and jumped back. He managed to look as if nothing unusual had happened.

I felt thirteen again.

“Hi, Nick.”

“Welcome to Atlanta.”

“It’s great to finally be here.” I smoothed my hair, conscious of the uneven side. And then I added a huge insight to the conversation. “It’s hot.”

“Consider yourself initiated to summertime in Georgia,” he said, narrowing his gaze to the side of my head where I was trying to tame that curl. “Sorry to hear Ian couldn’t come.”

Why my brother, Ian, and Nick got along so well was completely beyond my understanding. Ian was a long-haired college dropout who spent half his life with a guitar in his hands playing dimly lit bars from Indiana to the Upper Peninsula. Nick was a former high school star pitcher with near perfect standardized test scores, who earned a full ride to Vanderbilt University and joined one of the most successful architectural firms in the South. He was driven to succeed the same way Ian was compelled to loaf. Yet their friendship had lasted all these years.

“You know Ian. He had a gig in Grand Rapids last night and said he would help with the inn this weekend.” I didn’t add that we only had one guest booked tonight. The summer had been a struggle.

“Nick! It’s so good to see you,” said my mother, coming up behind us with Aunt Addie.

Aunt Addie squealed, “Nicholas Conrad! Look at you, dressed up in a suit like a fancy businessman.”

“Aunt Addie . . .” Nick started, before being swooped up in a sloppy bear hug.

“It’s been way too long since you were home, young man,” Aunt Addie said. “We can’t have you turning all soft and getting Southern on us, can we?”

She said it loud enough that a few people nearby frowned.

Nick cracked a smile. “Don’t worry, Aunt Addie. I still know how to fire a muzzle-loader and wrestle a four-wheeler.”

“Hmm,” she said, examining him closer.

“Darling, are these the people from your hometown you have told me so much about?” said a breathy voice followed by a sinewy bare arm that wrapped itself around Nick’s elbow.

Nick nodded to one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She had long black hair, perfect bone structure, and blue eyes framed by thick black lashes.

“Brittany, these are the Adlers. Virginia, Adelaide, and—”

“Annie,” I said, holding out my hand before he introduced me as Bump.

Brittany batted her eyelids and stared at Aunt Addie’s blue cabbage roses as if they were slightly out of focus. After a moment she looked toward me, leaning forward until my view was taken up by her generous cleavage. Her eyes traveled from my fake designer shoes to the top of my frizzy head. She shook my hand, turned to Nick and smiled. “You never told me how cute they are.”

Cute? Should we have put our hair in pigtails and painted freckles on our faces?

“How nice to meet you,” said my mother, ever aware of her hostess manners, even when she was away from the inn.

Aunt Addie’s gaze hadn’t moved from Brittany’s chest and I had to jab her with my elbow to get her to stop staring. Nick saw me and his mouth turned down at the corner. If I didn’t know him better I would think he was suppressing a smile. But Nick didn’t smile much, at least not at me.

The last time I’d seen Nick was several years ago, as he had stood beside his father’s grave. As long as I lived I would never forget how he had looked that cold April morning. His mother and sisters had clung to him, their breath coming out in billowing clouds of white and their gloved fingers clutching tissues as they failed to hold back tears. He had stood stoically in a gray wool overcoat, practically holding his family upright. His face had been pale, and his lips were compressed to thin lines. As if something had made him too angry to cry. I cried for all of them, and maybe a little bit for myself that day too. My own father’s grave was just a few rows away.

I realized that Nick was gazing intently at me. He stood with his head tilted and his hands in his pockets. Did he know what I was thinking about?

“Where’s your camera?” he asked. “I’m used to seeing you with a camera around your neck all the time.”

“She doesn’t do that as often anymore, Nick. Remember how much she loved it?” Aunt Addie interjected.

Explaining how I had given up photography for teaching wasn’t something I wanted to discuss. I had just been laid off from the local high school and didn’t want to elaborate on my apparent double failure.

Charlotte left Henry’s side and looped her arm in mine. “I can’t wait to introduce you to all my friends.”

Henry hailed a waiter and grabbed several drinks from his tray. “These are a house specialty. Gin, tequila, and a secret ingredient. You have to try them,” he said, handing them to us.

Aunt Addie’s eyes grew wide. “I love a good drink.”

Ian always watered down my mom’s and Aunt Addie’s drinks back at the inn. I started to caution them, but Charlotte grabbed my arm. “Let me introduce you to some of my friends.”

“Wait. You know how Mom and Aunt Addie are with alcohol. Maybe I should warn them—”

“They’ll be fine,” Charlotte said, dragging me into the Governor’s Room.

With every hour, the party grew louder and the night stretched longer. The room was brimming, and I couldn’t even fathom how all these people knew Charlotte and Henry. I found myself introduced to dozens of relatives and friends of the Lowells. Names started running together and I was pretty sure we met more people than lived within the city limits of Truhart.

Several of Charlotte’s friends commented on her success and I tried not to brag. With help from Nick, she had landed an amazing job as a correspondent on The Morning Show last year. But it wasn’t easy. She worked long hours and everyone knew she had to deal with a difficult and demanding lead anchor. Scarlett Francis.

“So far, Charlotte has been able to avoid her tantrums. But we have a bet going on how long it will take before she gets her first tongue-lashing,” confided one of Charlotte’s coworkers.

“Is she really that bad?” someone asked.

A balding man leaned in and said, “Oh yeah.”

“We keep telling Charlotte to keep her head down and pretend she has connections on Capitol Hill. God forbid the woman finds out she is from the flyover zone,” said a red-faced man who waved down the waitress for another drink.

I couldn’t help myself. “Charlotte doesn’t need to justify herself. She has worked hard making a name for herself and it shouldn’t matter where she is from.”

The red-faced man grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and looked beyond me. “Sure she works hard, but let’s be honest—she is young, blonde, and pretty . . . all the things that make her GATE material,” he said, mentioning the name of the network they all worked for.

“She was a weekend anchor on our local station by the time she was twenty-two, and was doing headline stories in Detroit before moving to Atlanta.”

“Dime a dozen,” the man said, guzzling half his glass as if it was water.

“She even won an award for her feature on abandoned houses in the city. That one put her right in the thick of some of the most violent neighborhoods in the nation.”

“If you say so,” he said, looking at the man next to him and winking.

I could feel heat rising to my face. My voice sounded shrill. “I suppose just because Charlotte is young and pretty people think she is only a piece of fluff, but I would like to see half the anchors on TV get out of the newsroom and actually visit the flyover zone . . . even Scarlett Francis.”

It took me a horrified moment to realize that everything was quiet and my comment practically echoed off the ceiling. I looked behind me and saw that everyone was holding their drinks in the air. June Lowel. . .