I almost laughed because it was such a ridiculous thing to say to a grown woman at her own engagement party.
My brother looked embarrassed for about two seconds, then did what he always did around women like her — pretended he didn’t hear it.
I grew up on a farm thirty minutes outside Asheville. Mud on boots, Dollar General birthday cakes, fixing fences before school. Meanwhile Vanessa came from one of those families that says things like “summering in Charleston” with a straight face.
The funny part was she’d spent the entire evening bragging about how “exclusive” the venue was without realizing I’d spent half the night helping the kitchen staff because one dishwasher called out sick.
I didn’t technically own the hotel alone. My ex-husband and I bought the property fifteen years earlier when it was still a bankrupt roadside inn with leaking pipes and cigarette burns in the carpet. After the divorce, I kept it.
Vanessa finally asked, “So how exactly do you know the event manager?”
Before I could answer, one of the bartenders walked over holding his tablet and said:
“Miss Carter, the wedding deposit didn’t clear again. Should we still release the ballroom for tomorrow?”