“No way!” I said. “Will you please stop acting like my grandmother? She wanted to set me up too—with Chintu Patel.”
Ernie Uncle waved off Chintu Patel impatiently.
“This guy isn’t just Indian, he’s nice, incredibly smart, and probably very rich,” Ernie Uncle said.
I laughed. He really was acting like my grandmother, which was both hilarious and endearing. “I really appreciate the thought, but. Not. Interested!”
“Fine,” Ernie Uncle said, resigned to my indifference. “Hey, do you need any help with the wedding? Anything we can do?”
“No, we’re good,” I said.
He nodded. “You’re all set with the car. Give me a call when you get home, okay?”
“Thanks,” I said. “I will!”
I could see him grinning in my rearview mirror as I turned back onto the street. I had to add three more names to the guest list—Ernie Uncle, his wife, and his daughter. That made 183. Yikes!
Chapter Eight
“Well?” I waited for Vinnie’s reaction.
I had just uploaded two hundred pictures of the Grand onto Facebook Messenger for her to see. “Do you think it’ll work?”
I didn’t mention the mosquitoes—yet. Why muddy the waters before giving the place a chance?
“It’s nice.” Vinnie didn’t sound too thrilled. “It would be really convenient, and the price isn’t bad.…”
“But…?” I said. I could tell there was a but.
“But it’s not really atmospheric,” Vinnie said. “You know?”
I sighed. “I know,” I said. “Onward, I guess.”
“But it is such a good rate,” Vinnie said with forced cheerfulness. “Maybe we should just book it anyway?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Let me check out the other options.”
“But it’s taking up all your time,” Vinnie said.
“So?” I said. “We’re not booking anything until we find the perfect place, okay?”
“Okay,” Vinnie said, and that was that.
I Googled venue options until I was cross-eyed, and fell asleep exhausted. This was so much harder than I thought it would be.
In another week things were no better.
The Westborough Villa had the most delicious chocolate walnut cookies on the planet, and a really cute patio, but though it had some pretty flower beds, it was completely paved over with no grass lawn. It also had a fabulous view—of the parking lot! The Four Seasons and the Boston Taj were just too far from Westbury, and too damn expensive. The Hyatt was where Manish’s sister got married a year ago, and though I loved driving down Memorial Drive to look it over, and it had a lovely view of the Charles and the Boston skyline, it really didn’t have a garden option, so it wasn’t for Manish and Vinnie.
By the time I had been through five hotels and their event managers, I was feeling like a pro.
But still no deal.
It was thanks to Yogi that we cracked the venue in the end.
I came home from yet another venue-scouting trip to find Yogi looking all hangdog and miserable. Usually he jumped up and fawned all over me, but today he barely lifted his head. Guess he thought I was going to ignore him again.
“Aww.” I stroked his soft ears. He gave me a look of utter resignation. That settled it. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t let him down again.
“Just give me a minute!” I dragged myself off to my bedroom and changed into shorts, a tee, and running shoes. I slapped together a sandwich in the kitchen and wolfed it down with a glass of cold milk, then grabbed Yogi’s leash. He leapt off the couch, ears up, tail lashing. Now he got it. He could smell honest intent a mile away.
“Where to?” I asked as we set off. “Fellsway College or River Bend?”
We hadn’t been to River Bend in a while, what with work, wedding research, and SAT prep. Shayla probably thought I’d abandoned her for the summer.
I cut through the scenic but narrow Pond Street and turned into the River Bend reservation—the home of the Massachusetts Botanical Society. There was a pretty little bridge over the Charles before a long one-way loop took us past the stately old manor house—its last owners had donated their estate to MassBot—and finally to the canoe launch site’s parking lot. The place is really beautiful and peaceful—usually. Not that day, though. Camp Woodtrail was in full swing and the grounds were overrun by kids, kids, and more kids. I slowed down to ten miles an hour so they could see me coming.
“We—are—TI—GERS!” chanted a bunch of ten-year-olds. “Mighty, mighty TI—GERS!” I peeked around the crowd of kids and spied Shayla leading them on, along with a couple of other camp counselors. She was yelling louder than the rest of them, her face red with heat and effort.
I slowed to a stop, rolled down the window, and waved at her frantically. “Shayla!” I said. “Here!”
She jogged over to the Mini. “Where’ve you been?” she said. “I haven’t seen you in days!”
“Wedding stuff,” I said apologetically. “It’s driving me nuts!”
“You brought Yogi-wan-Kenobi!” she said. “Want to walk with us? Wanna go walkies with Shayla Aunty?”
“With all of you?” I scanned the kids milling around her. “Is that a good idea?”
“Sure!” she said. “The more the merrier.”
I parked the car and Yogi bounded out grinning like a wolf. A couple of kids looked alarmed. “He’s friendly, see?” I put Yogi in a sit and let them pet him. He was really patient, putting up with ten hands at a time patting.
When we got to the wooded trail along the river I let him off-leash. He bounded away and raised his leg at a large pine tree. A couple of kids broke ranks to chase after him. “Timmy,” Shayla yelled, “get back here. Stay with the group.”
Yogi quickly figured out that staying a hundred feet ahead of us meant he’d be unbothered by the kids and promptly
