Lawrence Parcell appeared to be helping the stranger out, pointing to the tables where the food was being set up. “He could be one of Owen’s city friends, but Loralee doesn’t think so.”
“Why would a wedding crasher bring a kid?”
“Good point.” Jerry edged away. “Let’s go see.”
He didn’t really think the guy was trouble, but it was as good an excuse as any to move through the crowd, shake some hands, spread goodwill and accept congratulations for the success of the filming of the TV show.
Jerry wanted to bask in the glory of the first of many Willing weddings. In fact, he’d offered to give a toast before dinner. To the first of many Willing weddings, he’d say, lifting a glass of champagne. To the first of many blissful couples, to happy brides and brave grooms and to populating the Willing school with more students. To new businesses. To tourists. To increased tax revenues.
No, he couldn’t go that far. But it was tempting.
He’d been advised by Owen to keep it personal. No campaign speeches, the groom had ordered. Keep it simple.
Jerry wasn’t fond of simple. He was up for reelection in a year and a half.
He eased past his constituents, a boisterous group who talked to one another as if they hadn’t been out of their homes in months. Well, winter could do that, make you feel as if you lived in a cave with a television set and a phone and a freezer full of fish, beef and maybe some venison. Thankfully he lived in the middle of town and could get out whenever he wanted. He could walk to the café, to the Dahl, to the community center for the various meetings and social activities.
Tracy had wanted him to come to California for the winter, but he couldn’t get away for more than a week at a time. And once a month, if he was lucky. He played bingo with the seniors on Saturday nights, competed in the Dahl’s Trivial Pursuit contest, organized the annual film festival—a collection of local residents’ home movies—and managed every detail of his town’s involvement with the television show.
Tracy thought he was insane.
“Really? Charles Russell?” the stranger was saying.
“They’ve got a museum in Great Falls,” Mr. Parcell said. “You can see where he painted. Pretty impressive, if you like art.”
“I like art,” the man replied. “Maybe my daughter—”
“Ever heard of Charles Russell, young lady?”
The child nodded. “I studied artists of the American West last year. Charles Russell was known as one of the greatest and produced over four thousand works.”
“Well, now,” Les’s grandfather drawled. “I’m impressed with your education. Where’d you go to school?”
“I used to attend Lady Bishop Pettigrew’s,” the little blonde girl replied. “But I was recently expelled.”
“Why?” Jerry interrupted, stepping into the small group. He couldn’t help himself. This angelic-looking child didn’t seem at all like a troublemaker. But maybe Lady Pettigrew’s had a stricter code of conduct than the schools in Montana.
“I have severe psychological issues.”
“Don’t we all?” Jerry said into the following silence. He held a hand out to what looked like the girl’s stunned father. “Jerry Thompson, mayor,” he said. “Since we haven’t met, I assume you’re a friend of the groom?”
“Not exactly,” the other man said, flashing a quick smile. “I’m Jake Hove, and this is my daughter, Winter.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet both of you.” Jerry shook hands with them. The man seemed friendly enough, though he kept scanning the crowd as if he was looking for someone. Winter didn’t seem severely disturbed. Jerry thought she seemed like a nice enough kid. She didn’t have any obvious piercings or tattoos. She was expensively dressed, in designer jeans and a hoodie. Growing up in Los Angeles had taught him to recognize high-end clothing. “Did you say Hove? Any relation to—”
“Sam,” Jake said. “My brother. We’re not attending the reception,” he added quickly, glancing at the girl. “We’re in town and I wanted to see—”
“We waited outside during the wedding,” Winter broke in. “We didn’t wish to be rude.”
“The bride and groom wouldn’t have cared or even noticed,” Mr. Parcell said. “The whole town was invited. Of course, they know everyone in town, so it was only right.”
Winter nodded. “We saw the poster at the bar.”
“We weren’t in the bar,” Jake quickly assured them.
“I was,” Winter said. “I needed to make use of the facilities.”
The old man frowned. “What?”
“She talks like that sometimes,” Jake told him.
Jerry wondered if severe psychological issues manifested as speaking with a British accent. Maybe the child had different personalities, like Sybil in that movie he’d seen when he was a kid. Jerry shuddered.
Jake scanned the crowd. “Is Sam here?”
“He’ll be up at the main house with Lucia getting the food ready,” Jerry said. “She and Marie Swallow are organizing the potluck in the tent.”
“I’ll check there. Thanks.”
“It’s the big white Victorian,” Jerry added. “You passed it when you walked in, and of course, you’ll have seen the reception tent. It’s almost as big as the barn.”
“Thanks.” Jake put his hand on Winter’s shoulder. “We’ll head over there.”
“How long are you going to be in town?”
“I’m not sure. We’re on our way home. To Nashville.”
“That’s quite a drive,” Jerry said, glancing toward the child again. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Willing. We have a lot of things going on in town right now, with the television show about to air.”
“Television show?” Now that caught the girl’s interest.
Jerry nodded. “Oh, yeah. We’re about to become famous. Your uncle can tell you all about it. He was at most of the filming.”
“But I thought he makes documentaries,” Winter said. “In South America.” She turned to her father. “You didn’t tell me he filmed a show here.”
“I didn’t know,” her father said. “We didn’t talk very long and—”
“Oh, this wasn’t one of Sam’s fishing films. This had nothing to do with him. Ours was a reality show,” Jerry explained. “We took twenty-four of our most eligible men here in town and created a dating show.”
“Willing to Wed?” Jake grinned.
“Yes! You’ve
