Vintage fairground colours wash her face as she gazes up at me – rose pink, sunbeam gold, apple green. ‘You did this for me?’ she says.
‘Hey, a girl only marries herself once, right?’ I say. ‘How did it go?’
She nods slowly, her dark eyes triumphant. ‘Mack, it was amazing,’ she says. The words bubble from her like champagne. ‘Even walking over there, I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel, but the minute I got to the clearing, this feeling of utter calmness came over me, and rightness, and – oh, I don’t know, I just … I needed it more than I realized.’
I pick up her right hand. ‘And now you’re married,’ I say, looking at Dolores’s ring on her finger.
She grins. ‘And I don’t even need to change my surname.’
‘Easier for paperwork,’ I say. ‘Hungry?’
She nods. ‘Starving.’
‘In that case, welcome to your wedding reception.’
She looks at me, quizzical. ‘My what now?’
I hold my hand up to stall her while I duck inside the lodge for a second. I pull out the plaid rug and flick it out on to the porch floor with one hand; I don’t tell her I killed ten minutes earlier perfecting that move.
I add a couple of cushions, and then hold out the softest blanket for her shoulders.
‘Your table.’
I see it on her face, the gladness, and it warms me. Nipping back inside, I pull out the picnic basket Brianne found for me and place it down on the rug between us.
‘Mack,’ she says, soft. ‘I really didn’t expect any of this.’
‘I know that,’ I say, twisting the wire from the champagne cork. ‘I wanted to add to your memories.’
She smiles, accepting the glass I offer her. ‘Well, you’ve certainly done that,’ she says. ‘Dolores’s ring, Delta’s flowers, Brianne’s cake, and now this. It’s been a day full of surprises.’
‘And the night is young.’
Her eyes open wider.
‘I’m joking,’ I say. ‘This is kind of the pinnacle.’ I touch the rim of my glass to hers. ‘To you, Cleo Wilder.’
She grins. ‘Cheers.’
She puts on her pre-prepared wedding-day playlist, some stuff I recognize and some I don’t, and she shares snippets about her afternoon as we eat the food I’ve picked up. It isn’t flashy, just things I could lay my hands on. Chicken salad rolls, potato salad from Brianne’s store, olives fiery with chilli oil, a couple of slices of quiche from the café.
‘I didn’t get dessert,’ I say. ‘I saw Brianne had it covered.’
‘Can you believe that?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t had a birthday cake made for me since I was a kid.’
‘You’ve certainly thrown yourself a birthday to remember,’ I say.
A laurel leaf falls from her hair wreath when she shakes her head. ‘Team effort,’ she says.
‘Team Cleo,’ I say. ‘You’ll have it trending when you post your next column.’
She huffs. ‘My boss would so love that.’
I refill her glass. ‘Would you?’
‘Would I love it?’ She pauses, thinking. ‘I’m proud of how I felt today, and if it helps other people to read about it and maybe feel the same way, then I’d love that, yes. But the whole social media trending thing? Being here, so unplugged from that world … I like it. I much prefer it.’ She sighs. ‘I’m not going back.’
‘To London?’ I say, surprised.
‘I mean, I’ll go back, but only to wind things down so I can leave again.’ She looks out towards the beach. ‘It’s time for me to do something else. I’m just not exactly sure what that something else is yet.’
She tells me about imagining Julia’s galleon from the cave painting out on the horizon, herself at the wheel. I follow the track of her eyes now and see it too, white sails, anchor dropped, waiting for her to take the helm.
‘I envy you,’ I say. ‘Nothing tying you down.’
‘And I envy your ties,’ she says simply.
‘I guess everyone always thinks the grass is greener,’ I say. ‘It rarely is, in my experience.’
‘Better to water your own grass than roll on someone else’s,’ she says, then laughs, wry. ‘I’m a walking, talking Pinterest quote queen.’
‘You don’t need other people’s words,’ I say. ‘You have your own way with them.’