At Wits' End - Kenzie Reed Page 0,3

could see her anymore.

When she reached the edge of her property, she spotted her aunt in the vineyard block farthest from their house, inspecting the trellises. Then the sobs came. Big, heaving sobs that shook her whole body. Tears ran down her face.

“Sienna!” Aunt Fernanda cried out, running towards her. “What happened?”

“I fell. I scraped my knees. I ruined the dress Mother gave me.” None of that was a lie. None of that was the reason she was crying.

“Piccolina.” That meant ‘little one’. “It’s just a dress.” Her aunt knelt down next to her and threw her arms around her, pulling her into a soft, warm embrace. Then she leaned back. “And it’s just a little mud. See?” she leaned back. Now she was covered with mud too. She put her hand on Sienna’s dress, then rubbed some on her cheek. “Dirt is our friend,” she said. “Life grows from dirt. Dirt gives us nourishment. Getting dirty is nothing to cry about.”

Then she glanced at the woods, as if suddenly realizing what direction Sienna had come from. “Where were you just now? You weren’t at the Witlockes’, were you? Did they do something to you?” Her eyes blazed with protective fury.

“Nope.” Sienna shook her head, her black curls bouncing. And that wasn’t a lie either. She’d done it to herself. “Thank you, Aunt Ferdie. I’m okay. I’m going to go change and wash up.”

And then she muttered something under her breath.

“What was that?” Aunt Fernanda asked.

Sienna just shrugged, but as she walked towards her house, she repeated it under her breath again and again. Never trust a Witlocke. Never trust a Witlocke. Never trust a Witlocke.

Chapter Two

FRIDAY APRIL 30, 2021

"Sienna Verona Ribaldi!”

It’s never a good sign when your mother uses your entire name.

It doesn’t matter that I’m twenty-nine years old; it still spells trouble. It’s even worse when she’s bellowing it across the parking lot of the Wine Knot wedding chapel.

“Sienna!” my mother shouts again.

I glance out my car window. “Present and accounted for,” I call. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in my rearview mirror. My wide-eyed, stunned reflection momentarily distracts me from my mother’s indignant summons.

“I, Sienna Ribaldi, do take thee, Jonathon Witlocke, to leave and to heave, preferably out the window…” I announce to my reflection, reaching up and adjusting my veil. The veil is attached to a circlet of white plastic flowers, nestled in my unruly jet-black curls. Plastic. It is so not me.

Heck, the entire wedding is so not me. Jonathon Witlocke? He was picked out for me yesterday. By pulling his name from a hat.

“In sickness, and I will definitely be sick of you before the honeymoon’s over…”

“Sienna! Don’t try to ignore me!”

I let out a startled squeak. My window is rolled down, and my mother has snuck up on me. “I need to put a bell on you,” I mutter, snatching my veil off my head. I hadn’t even tried it on before I pulled in to the parking lot.

“What?”

I turn to face her and flash a big, innocent smile. “I said ‘Hello, you.’” I drop the veil into the gym bag where I’ve stuffed my wedding dress and shoes.

“No you didn’t.” She reaches up and tucks a lock of frosted, flat-ironed blonde hair behind her ear. “And those had better not be the vows that you actually recite at the wedding ceremony.”

I wish. I’d love to say what I’m actually thinking on my own wedding day. But I would never. I made a promise to help save the family business, once and for all, and I will keep that promise.

“What were you yelling about?”

“You’re running late. You’ll barely have to time to change. We’ve got to sell this wedding. We’re already on thin ice.”

My mother looks deeply aggrieved. As if any of this were my idea. As if this deranged scheme hadn’t been cooked up over this past week and served up to me with the expectation that of course I’d drop everything, upend my life, and go along with it.

Which, of course, I did.

Just then, my purse makes a meowing sound. I slide my hand in and stroke Aceto, a burly, scarred old tom cat who appeared on my grandmother’s porch as a kitten the day after Uncle Nuccio died, ten years ago. Aceto means vinegar in Italian, and it pretty much sums up his personality.

“Shhh,” I whisper to him. “We had an agreement.”

My mother peers in through the window, horrified. “That isn’t… Sienna… Get rid of that thing!”

I shake