I let it go to voicemail. When I got to my car, I listened to the message.
It was a man with a frustrated voice.
“Yeah, hi, this is All Occasion Rentals. We’re out here at the Whitmore Farm with the 20 Alfi tent and the folding chairs, but there’s a guy here saying he doesn’t know anything about a wedding and won’t let us through the gate. Sarah gave us this number. Call us back.”
I deleted the voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, Sarah called. I answered on the third ring.
“Mom, what did you do?” she shrieked. “The rental company just called me. They said you hired some old man to stand at the gate and turn them away. Tell your groundskeeper to open the gate right now.”
“Sarah,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly level. “That is not a groundskeeper. That is Arthur. He owns the property.”
“Stop lying. I know you’re just trying to punish me because I told you to pay for the caterer. This isn’t funny anymore. Call him and tell him to let them in. David’s family arrives on buses on Saturday morning.”
“I cannot tell Arthur what to do on his own property. I sold the farm in November. I live in a condo in Louisville. I have told you this repeatedly.”
“You are unbelievable!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “You’re dead to me if you ruin this.”
She hung up.
I started my car and drove home.
I didn’t panic. I didn’t try to fix it. I just put my groceries away.
Friday was blissfully quiet.
By this point, I assumed Sarah had finally realized I was telling the truth. I figured she and David were scrambling to find a park pavilion or a hotel block for their guests.
I spent the morning repotting my spider plants and the afternoon reading a novel on my balcony.
It was a beautiful, clear June day, the kind of day the farmhouse would have looked stunning.
But instead of stressing over landscaping and scrubbing baseboards for ungrateful guests, I was drinking iced coffee and listening to the birds.
Around 4:00 p.m., I received an email. It was an automated update from the wedding website.
“Update: The rehearsal dinner will now take place at Mario’s Italian on Fourth Street. See you there.”