Forever Wild(13)

“That could be nice.”

“No, it could not.”

Toby’s eyebrow arches in question.

“It’s on the other side of the world and I have no roots there.”

He considers that for a moment. “Yeah, but Jonah would rock the lederhosen.”

I giggle-snort. “Do they wear those there? You know what? It doesn’t matter. No wedding in Norway. It’s got to be either Toronto or here. My mother is pushing for Toronto.” As much as it shocks me, the idea of an Alaskan wedding is sounding more appealing by the day.

Toby scratches his head in thought. “Or you could get married now, since Jonah’s mom is already here.”

I laugh off his joke. “Yeah, right.”

But Toby’s expression says he isn’t kidding this time. “Why not? Your parents will be here, too. My dad could marry you.” He nods toward Teddy, fumbling with the screen stand while tugging at the back of his jeans to keep them from falling down. “He got his certification a bunch of years ago when my cousin was getting married. He can legally marry you. All you’d need is the license.”

Toby is actually serious. “I can’t.”

“Why not? Who else do you really need?”

“Well, I mean … Diana! She’s my maid of honor. I can’t get married without her!” I sputter over my answer. While I haven’t begun planning our wedding yet, what Toby is suggesting is far from what I had envisioned.

“I’m sure she’d understand, given the health concerns.”

“My mother would kill me. She has her heart set on the real deal.”

“It’ll still be real. Just … simpler.” Toby shrugs, his eyes flickering to the engagement ring on my finger, an intricate display of diamonds set in a snowflake design. “Anyway, it’s a thought.”

“Hey! Enough gabbing, you two!” Muriel claps her hands. “We only have seven hours left before people start showing up.”

“Only seven more hours of this,” Toby murmurs, casting a secretive wink before continuing to adjust the next table.

I dash off to the storage room for the linens, Toby’s suggestion lingering in the back of my mind.





“Did you find them?”

I track Muriel’s voice to the doorway where she stands next to Roy. A sizeable cardboard box sits in his arms. “Yup.” I hold the packages of votive candles in the air as proof. Despite the persistent chill in the community center, rummaging around the cluttered storage room has made my skin feel clammy, and I use this opportunity to brush my forearm against my forehead. “They weren’t in the green bins.”

Muriel purses her lips, her accusing gaze flipping to Jamie Gill, who oversaw last year’s Christmas dinner cleanup and is, in Muriel’s own words, “as scattered as an upturned bowl of glitter.”

I toss the packages onto one of the rectangular buffet tables—someone else can fill and light a hundred and fifty candles because it’s almost four p.m. and I have yet to take a break—and stroll over to them. “Hey, Roy.”

He grunts, his attention wandering over the hall.

“Looks good in here, huh?” Supersized poinsettias donated from the local garden center mark the doors and Santa’s threshold. The centerpieces they’ve used every year were tacky and dated, so I repurposed the vases and pinecones and added birch branches that Emily and I scavenged from the forest to make chic displays. And, after twenty minutes of begging, I convinced Muriel to let Toby and me string strands of white twinkle lights canopy-style over the dressed tables, creating a cozy ambiance.

We’ve managed to transform the drab, drafty room into a place primed for a festive party.

I nod toward the box. “Whatcha got there?”

“Somethin’ for the auction,” he grumbles.

“A donation from Roy Donovan?” I can’t hide the surprise from my voice, even as I tease. Getting so much as a free egg out of this man is a rarity.

Roy scowls. “Didn’t turn out. Was gonna burn it, but I figured I may as well let you guys have it. See if you can make a few bucks.”

“What is it?” I lean over to steal a glimpse at a wooden basket nestled inside.

“It’s for harvesting the garden,” Muriel explains.

I frown. “You were going to burn this? It looks perfect to me.”

“The handle’s wonky. Here.” He thrusts the box toward Muriel. “Gotta get back to milk the goats before it gets too dark.” He bolts out with nothing more than a nod my way.

I chase after him, out into the hall. “Hey, Roy, why don’t you come back for dinner after you’re done with the animals? I know my table has a few extra seats.” I would have asked Astrid and Bj?rn to come, but I figured they’ll be falling asleep at their table settings by five.

He keeps marching toward the door. “I don’t do Christmas.”

“But you do eat.” I temper the annoyance in my tone. “They’re serving turkey and roast beef … and apple pie for dessert.” A weakness of Roy’s, I learned this past fall when I was experimenting with pastry.

“I’ve got dinner ready.”

“Yeah, canned meat.” Eating the same meal seven days a week is bound to make anyone certifiable. “Come on, Roy. You can sit with me. You don’t even have to talk, if you don’t want to. But you shouldn’t be alone.”