“They’ll be here around one.” I steal a glance Jonah’s way to find him watching me closely, that crooked smile that is my downfall touching his lips. I reach for him and he sidles up beside me, curling his arm around my shoulder. I look to him—because he’s truly the only one who matters here—when I add, “Which will give Jonah and me enough time to drive to the courthouse to apply for a marriage license, because we’ve decided we don’t want to wait anymore.”

There’s a clatter of silverware, as Muriel empties her hands onto the table, freeing them to slap together in a loud clap. “Well, hot damn! We have ourselves a wedding to plan!” she exclaims, her voice full of uncharacteristic glee.

“Calla? You down there?” Jonah’s deep voice booms from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah!”

“You callin’ Diana?”

Shit. I need to do that, too. “Give me ten.” I settle into my desk chair, the stack of identification and other paperwork that we need to apply for our license next to me.

Upstairs, I can hear the hum of voices. Astrid’s reaction to our news was in line with Muriel’s, though far more subdued. My mother, on the other hand, took a few deep breaths and then started talking out loud about an intimate wedding she arranged the flowers for a few years back and how lovely it turned out.

Now, they and Muriel are upstairs discussing the order of what needs to be booked, and what are our limited options. Obviously my mother will do the flowers and Astrid has graciously offered to bake the cake, but there are so many things up in the air.

I shake out my hands as I wait for my MacBook to power up. My frazzled nerves at the moment have nothing to do with the fact that Jonah and I are getting married next week, though. That decision, I’m confident in.

This one … not so much.

I open my email server and hit Compose.

Before I lose my nerve, I type out a message I pray will change someone’s life as much as a phone call one night in July changed mine.

“If that’s Jonah again, tell him we’re five minutes from home.” His worry is equal parts endearing and annoying.

My mom slides on her reading glasses to read the text. “It’s Toby. He says that Muriel says Connie can do it—slow down, Calla. You’re making me nervous.”

I ease my foot on the brake pedal to navigate the right-hand turn onto our side road. When my mom, Agnes, Mabel, and I climbed into the Jeep at seven a.m., on a mission to Anchorage to find a wedding dress, the roads were clear and only the odd snowflake drifted from the sky. We had every intention of being back in time for a late lunch. But one failed bridal store led to the next, and then another, and by the time we hit the road for Trapper’s Crossing, it was after one, and the winter storm the forecasters have been threatening us with was well on its way in.

“Connie who? I don’t know any Connies.”

“Well, I definitely don’t know this Connie, but apparently she’s sewn all the costumes for the school’s drama club. Muriel’s on her way over there now to ask her.”

“And you told her the dress needs major alterations?” I had all but given up on finding the wedding dress after sifting through dozens of generic strapless ball gowns and over-the-top beaded options and was about to settle on a nice but “seen it a thousand times before” option when Agnes discovered a simple but elegant dress with a round neckline and long sleeves, buried deep within a rack. Even my mother approved. The only problem? It’s several sizes too big. A problem that the bridal shop owner promised could easily be fixed with a skilled seamstress. Unfortunately, there is no way hers can get it done in time.

“Yes! Almost word for word.” Mom reads her text message out loud to prove it.

“Okay. Well, if she thinks this Connie woman can do it, then I have to believe she can do it.” I doubt there will be a lot of “asking” involved when poor Connie opens her door to a determined Muriel McGivney.

“You know, we’re putting an awful lot of trust in your neighbor.” Mom slides her reading glasses off. Her brow is pulled with worry. “I hope you’re not disappointed in how this all turns out, Calla.”

My stomach squeezes, that little voice in the back of my mind echoing her thoughts.

Once Jonah and I arrived home from the courthouse, it became a mad dash to get the ball rolling on making decisions. Simon suggested we call Muriel to help us. I agreed, and she arrived not twenty minutes later with an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven coil notebook tucked under her arm. Her bible, she called it—tattered and bent and marred with countless scribbled names and numbers—that would help us with the hows. But first we needed to decide on the when and where and who.

The when was easy. New Year’s Eve. With the holidays, we won’t get the license before the thirtieth and the parents are all leaving on January 2 so our window of opportunity is small.

As for the who, Jonah and I crafted a guest list on the drive to the courthouse. We came up with twenty-five people—more than I’d anticipated.

The where was the biggest challenge. There are only three wedding venues in the area and a few quick phone calls confirmed all were unavailable. Muriel was ready to pencil us into the community center despite my insistence that it lacked character and was too big for twenty-five people. We were resigned to cramming everyone into our house for a reception. And then Muriel was struck with an epiphany—the Ale House. It’s cozy, it has character, and with a bit of elbow grease, she was convinced it could be ideal.

Best of all, it’s close and available.

I had to admit, it wasn’t the worst idea, and it would keep the chaos out of our house, which is already chaotic enough with all the guests.

Mom cautiously suggested we see “this Ale House of yours” before we committed to a wedding reception there.

So we drove over, and Mom spent a half hour walking in circles, pointing at things that would need to be put away or cleaned up—the cluttered bulletin board, the cheap folding tables, the fishing trophies.

Muriel agreed without argument. Shockingly.

My mother’s exact words were, “I can work with this.”

And so it was decided that our reception would take place at the Ale House.

With the biggest decisions nailed down, Muriel began listing all our resource options, both obvious and unconventional, given the tight timeline. Twenty-one-year-old Lacey Burns, who won a photography competition for her candid high school yearbook pictures and happens to be home from college for Christmas break; Michael and Anne Bowering, music teachers who play seven instruments and sing at church every Sunday; Gloria from the Winter Carnival planning community, who has been taking culinary classes in Anchorage for years, and is the best cook Muriel knows.

There wasn’t a question she couldn’t answer or a quandary she couldn’t recommend a solution for.

Muriel was in her element.

And I’ve never valued her more.

A few hours and a dozen phone calls later, we had a photographer, musicians, and our caterer lined up. My mother phoned every florist between Wasilla and Anchorage to survey our options for flowers, and Astrid was throwing cake flavors at me.

It all seems too easy.

Maybe it is. Maybe this is going to be a disaster.