Home of the Braised by Julie Hyzy

“Like . . . what?”
    “Come on, Ollie, you can’t be that dense. You ought to start looking for a place to hold a reception.”
    She must have reacted to the look on my face because she quickly added, “A small one, I mean.”
    “You don’t understand,” I said. “This isn’t about the wedding, this is about the marriage. I don’t need a reception or . . . or . . . any hoopla for that matter.”
    Cyan wore an expression of exasperation, one that would be more at home on a woman my mom’s age than on my young assistant chef. Her eyes fairly glimmered with glee behind bright-blue contacts as she adopted a patient tone. She put her hands up, like a movie director framing a shot. “Really? Picture this. You and Gav get in front of the judge exactly the way you plan. Great. Keep in mind that your mom and grandmother are there in the courtroom with you. They’re sitting and smiling and incredibly happy for you.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    She continued gesturing animatedly. “What exactly do you think happens once you’ve said your vows? Do you leave your family there to chat with the deputies when the ceremony is over? Of course not. You’ll want to take your mom and nana out somewhere nice to celebrate, won’t you?”
    I truly hadn’t thought that far ahead. Too much on my mind. “I suppose . . .”
    “Yeah,” she said, with emphasis. “And what do you plan to wear?”
    “Wear?” My head started to hurt. When Gav and I had set out for the courthouse, we’d been under the impression that we could be married within three days. With that short of a time span, there would be far less to fret about. Then our lead time turned into three
business
days, which turned into eight weeks, which could have been one week if Evan had . . .
    Evan.
    How could I worry about what to wear when there were five murdered men at the Ainsley Street Ministry and Gav had gone AWOL immediately afterward? “I don’t care what I wear,” I said to Cyan. “Really I don’t. Gav will marry me even if I show up in splattered chef’s whites.”
    She gave me a look that was half amused, half sympathetic. “I’ll back off for now. Keep in mind, though, if you need any help, I’m here.”
    Cyan meant well. And from the grin on Bucky’s face, I could tell he did, too. “I’ll remember,” I said. “Thanks.”
    • • •
    MY CELL PHONE TIMER WENT OFF A FEW MIN utes before ten A.M. I dug the device out of my pocket and shut off the chimes. “Thank goodness I set that,” I said aloud. I’d been concentrating so hard on the guest list in front of me and working to keep my mind from worrying about Gav, that I’d lost all track of time.
    Bucky watched me. “What’s the alarm for?”
    “Sargeant’s promotion. He asked me to be there when the First Lady makes the announcement to the press.”
    Across the kitchen, Virgil tossed vegetables into a sizzling skillet. He spoke over his shoulder. “What’s up with that? You and Sargeant have sure gotten lovey-dovey over the past few months.” He laughed. “You’d make a perfect couple.”
    I ignored him. “Cyan,” I said as I untied my apron, “can you take over here? I was about to cross-check this preliminary guest list with the dietary restrictions we have on file. I’ve gotten about one-third of the way through.” I pointed to where I’d left off. “Looks like we have a lot of work ahead of us. We have dietary dossiers on only about half the people I’ve checked.”
    “No problem,” she said.
    “When Sargeant’s free, we’ll need his help to determine the final guest list. We’ve got four preliminary lists we’re working from and we need to cross-check those to ensure no one’s been missed.”
    “Go,” Bucky said. “The dinner isn’t for another week. You know we’ll have fourteen more ‘absolute final’ lists to wade through between now and then.”
    I smoothed my hands down the sides of my smock and inspected it to ensure I hadn’t