Wrong Guest

Chapter One: Name Tag, Anyone?

Poppy Glass arrived at Maplewood Hall with her dress hem stapled because she’d broken her sewing kit in a cab. That had been minute twelve of a day that now included a misaddressed invitation, a coffee stain shaped like a goat, and a last-minute decision to attend a stranger’s wedding because fate was bored.

In the marble foyer, a woman wearing a clipboard and a headset asked, “Name?”

“Poppy,” she said brightly, then realized she needed a last name that fit the place card she’d seen in the invite. “Poppy… Price.”

Clipboard tilted. “Poppy Price. Cousin of the groom?”

Poppy smiled the way you smile when you’re sure there’s a bulldog behind a doorway and you’re also allergic to dogs. “Cousin twice removed, if you count scandal.”

The woman grinned. “Fabulous. We love scandal. Down the hall, second left, photo booth is open, don’t hog the feather boas.”

Poppy thanked her, walked into a room that smelled like roses and money, and tried not to gawk. Maplewood’s ballroom was all gold trim and ivory drapery, lanterns floating in clusters overhead like bubbles that had learned to spell. At the far end, a six-tier cake loomed on a white pedestal like a tower that needed permissions from city hall.

A string quartet eased into a pop song. Guests streamed in, rustling like gift wrap. Every face was friendly in the way that only beaming strangers can be.

“Caleb!” yelled a woman in fuchsia. “Finally!”

Poppy turned before she could stop herself.

The woman in fuchsia was Aunt Sheila, according to her rhinestone name badge. She squeezed Poppy’s shoulders. “I swear, if you had been one more minute late, I would’ve started the seating changes without you. Where’s the tie I sent you?”

Poppy glanced down at her yellow dress. “Laundry ate it.”

Aunt Sheila waved a hand. “So you’re still you. Come meet Grandma Dot. She’s already suspicious of the cake topper. She thinks the groom figurine looks nervous.”

Poppy let herself be led. It was like stepping onto a moving walkway marked Family, next stop: Secret Questions. She was greeted by cousins, step-cousins, cousins of cousins, and a man who said he was “emotionally a cousin.” When Grandma Dot presented a cheek for a kiss, Poppy leaned in and realized the old woman’s earrings were tiny whisk brooms.

“Good to see you vertical, Caleb,” Grandma Dot said crisply.

“Always a thrill,” Poppy said, because sometimes the only way out was through.

“Your mother still insists she chose your name because of the Old Testament, but I know she liked the sound of it. Not everything is scripture.” Grandma Dot’s eyes brightened as a tray of champagne flutes went by. “Blessings come in bubbles.”

Poppy took a glass. The rim was cold as a coin. She told herself she would play along for the ceremony, leave a nice gift, and never admit to anyone, least of all herself, that her planless plan had knots.

She had a secret, of course. But not yet. Secrets deserved better lighting.

The string quartet switched to a new song, and the room lifted as if on a breath. In a burst of petals and sighs, the bride appeared at the top of the aisle in a dress that had its own weather system. She was small and bright-eyed, and she couldn’t stop smiling. The groom, tall and softened by joy, held his hands out like someone trying to catch miracles. A hush landed, gentle as a shawl.

Poppy let the quiet settle in her chest. It felt like a clean page. She didn’t know the vows they spoke or the stories behind the glances, but she recognized the look on the bride’s face. It was the look of someone who loved the idea of the next hour.

When the kiss came, cheers erupted. Aunt Sheila dabbed at both eyes with a napkin. Grandma Dot said, “Well, that’s done,” and then added, “Beautifully.”

Poppy laughed softly. Small sounds in big rooms had always been her specialty.

And then, somewhere behind her, a door squeaked, and a man in a too-small black vest stumbled into an ice bucket.