Page 44 of The Sun and the Moon

I taste the sauvignon, taking a generous sip onto my palate and swirling it around. It’s tart, citrus-led, with hints of peach. I like it immediately, even if it’s not what I would choose to drink usually.

“It’s pleasant and easy,” I say after I swallow. I lift the chardonnay, their more well-known wine, the one they have stocked all over the country per their brochure. It has a deeper color, but chardonnay can be divisive, less of a crowd-pleaser.

This one is smooth, light on the palate but more robust than the sauvignon. It’s got hints of lemon and apple, and none of the buttery notes that I usually despise.

“I don’t think there’s a bad choice,” I say, my eyes traveling from the chardonnay to the sauvignon blanc.

“The budget allows for one,” Moira says, and it may be the first time I’ve ever heard her talk openly about money as if it isn’t an infinite, renewable resource granted by the Universe to those who visualize hard enough.

“The chardonnay will be what everyone expects.” I look up into her eyes, holding her gaze despite my usual aversion. “Give them something they won’t see coming.”

“Speaking my language,” she replies with a knowing smile.

She’s practically saying it with her whole chest. This engagement party is a wedding!

Surprise! But without some kind of proof, I don’t want to freak Sydney out.

We’re not supposed to be scheming. I’m supposed to be detaching and staying open.

But if they are lying to everyone, their comfort level with lying makes me all the more suspect of both of them.

What else could they be keeping secret, and at what point do we hold them accountable?

“I’ll go let them know about the decision,” she says, turning away from me and walking in the direction of the visitor’s entrance where the event coordinator has an office. When she’s gotten far enough away, I empty both wineglasses into my mouth and set them on the table.

Just one more time, just for peace of mind, I’m going to spy on my mother.

I follow her back through the vineyard, trying to be as covert as possible and not draw attention from the staff. There’s a flurry of activity around the gazebo set on one of the hilltops, nestled into the vineyards that flow into the hills at the edge of the property.

Gazebos historically point to wedding ceremonies.

The closer we get to the visitor’s entrance the more suspicious all this gazebo activity makes me. The main kitchen, utilized only for events, since Whimsy Winery doesn’t offer anything more than charcuterie and bread and olive oil on their normal tasting menu, is abuzz with activity.

Sure, they might be prepping food for tomorrow, but I take a quick detour to peek inside.

It looks like they’re setting up to actually serve today.

Platters of tapas are arranged. Silver trays are being polished.

Glassware steamed. They’re prepping entrées, sauces, and in one corner a pastry chef appears to be putting the final touches on what I can only describe as a full-blown wedding cake.

Two tiers. Rustic. Herbs and flowers wreathing their way down one side.

Why the fuck would an engagement party require a wedding cake?

I whip around from the kitchen, crossing beneath a porte cochere that connects the building with the visitor center, and approach the window at the side of the door.

I don’t want to burst in and yell gotcha .

That would just make her double down on the lie.

I know Moira well enough to know that. So I peer through the window.

She’s sitting across from the event coordinator, and in her hand she’s holding a small piece of cardstock.

Her smile is broad, bright, pleased. The look of a woman who is in on the joke but knows no one else has caught on yet.

I have to find out what’s written on that card.

They continue to chat for a few more minutes, until Moira hands back the card and stands to leave.

I drop down from the window, hoping that the angle of the door opening will shield me enough that she doesn’t see me when she comes back out this way.

I try to become one with the outer wall, wishing I were dressed in neutrals and had hair that didn’t require its own zip code.

But fortunately, when the door opens, she’s too absorbed in her conversation—which I barely catch anything from—to glance in my direction.

I slip inside, unnoticed, feeling extremely James Bond.

And a little guilty for how quickly I abandoned the promise I made Sydney to stop scheming and look for a path forward. I hope that if I present her with proof of a con in action, she’ll at least direct any anger she feels to our parents and not me.

Her opinion of me matters, a truth I can admit to myself and will have to freak out about at another time.

I make a beeline straight for the event coordinator’s desk, where I see a small paperboard box of cardstock sits holding a selection of invitations.

My eyes graze them, taking in the simple hunter-green font and the grapevine border.

The vineyard’s watermark is pressed into the lower right corner, making them look like they come from the winery and not the couple.

Please join Rick and Moira at Whimsy Winery this evening for a special tour & tasting. Dress to impress. All expenses paid. Shuttle service begins at five.

Tonight.

This is the confirmation I need to show Sydney.

The next thought bolts through me like a shock of electricity. No longer a tap or a whisper, this is a blast from my intuition, and I can’t ignore it. Together . We need to decide together what to do about this wedding. We pinky promised we were partners in this, and I want to keep that promise.

We came here thinking Moira was conning Rick, and we were wrong. Moira and Rick are conning us into attending their wedding.