“They should have buried the moonshine,” Libby said.
“Or rented a tent. Cocktail?”
“Thanks, but I better hold off.”
“You know where to find me.” Sierra drifted away, smiling as she presented her tray to the first soggy guest.
Libby moved inside Woodmont, pausing to shoot pictures of a floral arrangement in an antique porcelain vase. The original house had been built circa 1735 and the newer additions in the 1750s and 1790s. The large rooms to her left were tastefully decorated and restored to their original colonial charm. One was painted in a rich hunter green and the other a deep burgundy. Each fireplace was adorned with a white-veined marble, and the walls were painted an indigo blue. The stone and the plush hues were rarities at that time and had announced to the Virginia Colony that the Carters were indeed well to do.
Drawn to some of the detailed crown molding, marble fireplaces, and handblown glass windows, she snapped several pictures, knowing these were more for herself than the bride.
Libby’s wedding photography business was five years old now and growing monthly. She had always had a passion for photography and had collected all kinds of antique cameras when she was a kid. But art, her father had warned, did not pay the light bill, so he had encouraged her to go to nursing school. She had to study hard, but she graduated with honors and became an oncology nurse. To her surprise (and definitely her father’s), she had a talent for caring for the sick. Fast-forward a couple of years, and she met Jeremy, fell in love, and got married. Life went on—until it did not.
Libby watched the flow of guests milling about inside the large front level of the house filled with displays of daisies and marigolds. She moved toward a small side room, where she had stashed some of her camera equipment to switch out lenses.
Sierra doubled back, her tray now sporting fewer cocktails. “Do you realize you’re shooting the first wedding at Woodmont ever?”
“It’s a stunning venue.”
“Think it could be an attraction for weddings and events?”
“Definitely. It’s a beautiful property, but Mrs. Grant has already turned down several offers. If they jump into the event game, they’ll grab top dollar.”
Many of the guests had moved toward the two bars flanking the buffet table. The bride and groom had escaped to one of the hidden rooms to collect themselves. Outside, lightning crackled across the sky just as the DJ played “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”
“I need to take pictures of the cake table and the flowers.” Libby rummaged in her pocket for the list of Ginger’s guests to be remembered. The paper was damp, but the ballpoint ink was still intact.
“Off to shoot at the other end of the room.”
“Go get ’em.”
A young boy and girl with matching raven hair and green eyes—siblings, she supposed—approached her. A thirty-some-year-old woman with the same green eyes coaxed them forward and discreetly reminded them both to smile.
“Ms. McKenzie,” the woman said. “I don’t suppose you remember me or my children, Robert and Kate. Your father was their pediatrician, and he was mine as well.”
“He always had cherry suckers.” The boy beamed.
“When he gave a shot, I didn’t feel it,” the girl said.
“We were so sorry to hear about his passing,” the woman said.
Libby fiddled with the aperture on her camera. She knew moving back to Bluestone would mean hearing lots of stories about her father. And hearing those stories would make her miss him all the more. But as much as she wanted to shut herself off from people’s memories, she did not. She owed it to her father, who had cared for thousands of area children over the decades.
When he had died in January, the Episcopal church in Bluestone had been packed with mourners spanning generations of families just like this one. There had been people standing five deep in the vaulted sanctuary. Dad would have been proud. He had always thought a poorly attended funeral was a commentary on a man’s life.
“Thank you,” she said.
The bride and her groom appeared from a side room, and the guests began to cheer. Ginger looked as happy as Libby had on her own wedding day.
“I hear you’re back in town for good,” the woman said.
“Living in Dad’s house.” Nothing stayed a secret in small towns. She had spent the better part of the winter hunched over her computer, editing pictures from weddings, setting up new appointments, and traveling to events. The work had