Chapter 2 - The Blockade at the Gate
By noon, the frantic text messages had morphed into outright panic. My phone was vibrating off the edge of the kitchen table.
Mom, the caterers just left! They said their payment bounced!
What did you do? The florist is packing up their trucks!
Greg is losing his mind! People are starting to arrive in Charlottesville!
I ignored every single one of them. Instead, I walked out onto the front porch, pulling a wide-brimmed straw hat over my head, and stepped down into the warm Virginia sunshine. The air smelled of dry earth, ripening fruit, and wild honeysuckle. It was a magnificent day for a wedding—crisp, clear, and glowing with the golden light of early autumn.
A sharp, persistent honking echoed from the bottom of the long driveway, half a mile away.
I strolled leisurely toward the main vineyard road, shears in hand, pretending to inspect the late-season clusters of Cabernet Sauvignon grapes. Before long, a shiny black BMW SUV came tearing up the gravel drive, tires kicking up white dust clouds. It slammed to a halt a few feet from where I stood.
The driver’s door flew open, and Greg stepped out.
He looked immaculate in a custom-tailored Italian linen suit, but his face was an unbecoming shade of mottled crimson. His hair, usually styled with military precision, was ruffled by the wind.
“Are you completely insane?!” Greg shouted, marching toward me across the neatly edged grass. He didn't bother with a greeting. He didn't even look at the scenery he was so fond of claiming as his own. “What the hell did you do to the accounts?”
I paused, snipping a stray vine leaf before slowly turning to face him. I didn't rush. I took off my gardening gloves and tucked them into my back pocket.
“Good morning, Greg,” I said smoothly. “Or should I say good afternoon? You look stressed. A groom shouldn't have wrinkles on his wedding eve.”
“Don't play games with me, Andrea!” he snarled, stopping a yard away, his chest heaving. “Every single vendor just canceled their service! The band called off because the deposit reversal hit their corporate desk twenty minutes ago! The tent company is taking down the marquee as we speak! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? My colleagues from the firm are flying in from New York! The mayor’s office is attending!”
“Ah,” I said, nodding slowly. “Yes. The mayor’s office. I suppose they do expect a certain standard of hospitality, don't they?”
“Then fix it!” Greg demanded, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Call your bank right now! Reinstate the wires! You gave us this property, you said yourself it was our wedding venue—you can't pull the rug out from under us forty-eight hours before the ceremony just because you’re throwing a tantrum!”
I tilted my head, studying him with genuine curiosity. For months, I had let him slide. I had excused his arrogance, his dismissive comments about my farmhouse, his thinly veiled contempt for my manual labor. I had thought to myself, He’s young, he’s ambitious, he loves my daughter.
Now, looking at the sheer panic of a man whose stolen empire was wobbling on its foundation, I realized how blind I had been.
“Greg,” I said softly, stepping closer so he was forced to look down into my eyes. “I didn't pull the rug out from under your wedding. I simply stopped paying for a party I’m not allowed to attend.”
Greg went deathly pale. For a second, his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
“Samantha... Samantha told you that?” he stammered, his bravado instantly evaporating into a puddle of self-preservation. “That was just a joke! A misunderstanding! She didn't mean you couldn't come—she meant you should sit in the family pavilion, away from the media photographers! It was about privacy!”
“Privacy,” I repeated, letting out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Of course. How silly of me.”
Before Greg could scramble for another excuse, a second vehicle roared up the driveway—Samantha’s white Audi SUV. It swung wide, kicking up gravel, and came to a skidding halt right behind Greg’s BMW.
The door burst open, and Samantha tumbled out, her eyes red-rimmed, her designer dress already slightly wrinkled from frantic driving.
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“Mom!” she wailed, running across the lawn toward us. “Mom, what is going on? Everyone is calling me! The wedding is ruined!”
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