By the time my brother\u2019s third car pulled up at the gate that Memorial Day weekend, the string quartet had already begun tuning beside the pond.<\/p>\n
I stood behind the barn doors with a clipboard in hand, watching the white drapes ripple in the breeze while servers carried trays of iced tea across the lawn. The air carried the scent of freshly cut grass, roses, and warm butter from the caterer\u2019s rolls. Then I heard gravel crunch beneath tires, and instantly I knew who had decided that my silence meant approval.<\/p>\n
Derek stepped out first, just as he had done the last time\u2014too relaxed, too sure of himself, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt like he was arriving at a resort he owned. He slapped the roof of his SUV and grinned at the people behind him. \u201cTold you,\u201d I heard him say. \u201cPlenty of room.\u201d<\/p>\n
There were fifteen of them this time. Children, coolers, overnight bags, inflatable toys, a stroller, a woman I vaguely remembered from one Christmas years ago, and a man I didn\u2019t know carrying a case of beer. The kids spotted the pool through the hedges and began shouting before they were even unbuckled.<\/p>\n
But this time, instead of open access, they were met by a locked black iron gate\u2014and Leah Whitmore standing firmly in front of it, posture straight, expression neutral. Leah had spent twenty years running a boutique inn before joining me to manage the farm as an event venue. She had a way of handling chaos with calm precision\u2014directing vendors, reassuring anxious brides, and shutting down problems with just a few words.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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