Wedding Vows and Cornish Ribbons

By Laura Briggs

From the author who brought you the bestselling series A Wedding in Cornwall comes a funny, sometimes nuptially-fabulous sequel ...

Thrilled to finally have her own event planning firm in Cornwall, Julianne Rose specializes in ‘rescuing’ weddings and last-minute celebrations with the help of longtime friend Kitty. And their latest client’s plans are plenty tricky: a bride who suffers from a classic case of ‘runaway bride’ syndrome to the tune of three previous broken engagements...

Enter the perfect new client – in need of help with a huge wedding on a tight timeline, with plenty of society connections to spread the word far and wide about how stellar it was afterwards – but there’s a catch.

She’ll only hire Julianne and Kitty if she’s impressed with the work they do on their latest wedding. The one with the bride quite possibly poised to make a dash for freedom on cold feet.

Is their latest wedding rescue a hopeless cause? Julianne has her work cut out for her in book one of Return to Cornwall, the new series full of delightful characters, romance, escapism, and a few touches of reality that most will find altogether relatable in Julianne’s crazy life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Briggs
• Release date: Oct 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005329402

Laura Briggs

Laura Briggs is the author of several feel-good romance reads, including the UK best-seller 'A Wedding in Cornwall'. She has a fondness for vintage style dresses (especially ones with polka dots), and reads everything from Jane Austen to modern day mysteries. When she's not writing, she enjoys spending time with family and friends, caring for her pets, gardening, and seeing the occasional movie or play.

Book preview

Wedding Vows and Cornish Ribbons

By Laura Briggs

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 Laura Briggs

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image: Cornish Village. Original art, Evening winter village scene by Stekloduv and Spring Ribbon, by Zandiepants. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dear Readers,

It’s a delight to be back in the colorful, sometimes crazy world of Julianne, her supportive and charming husband Matthew, and their many friends in the idyllic village where something is always going on. I missed being part of their oh-so-fictionalized Cornish coast, and missed many little things that had become great fun over the time I wrote the original series – from Kitty’s sarcasm to Julianne’s ‘inner voice’ lecturing herself, and, of course, the sensitive-and-sexy Matthew who always knows to swoop in and help save the day if needed.

This first book in a brand new series picks up mere weeks after the events in the standalone reunion novel Return to Cornwall, which introduced readers to some of the changes in Julianne’s world, as well reuniting them with friendly faces from the past. This adventure brings its own unique challenges, humor, and excitement to Julianne as she does her best to make her client happy – in this case, a bride whose reputation for getting ‘cold feet’ before the ceremony (and determination to make it there no matter what) may hinder a smooth path to the altar.

As always, Julianne can’t help being a little too emotionally involved in her client’s predicament, even when she’s keen on helping her and Kitty’s business shine bright in the wedding planning world. Whether a happily-ever-after is in store for her client remains to be seen, but readers can be assured Julianne will go above and beyond to help her client find what they need...even if it means sacrificing what’s best for herself and her struggling-yet-promising event planning company Save the Date.

And if you happen to be new to Julianne’s world, I do hope you’ll feel inspired to check out stories from A WEDDING IN CORNWALL, the original series featuring her adventures as an American ‘fish out of water’ event planner, who found her own happy ever after working at a beautiful Cornish manor house. Books from the series are also available in two handy box set formats—perfect for anybody who prefers binge reading!

Wedding Vows and Cornish Ribbons

by

Laura Briggs

Chapter One

Squeezing produce for freshness was my Wednesday afternoon date with the local greengrocer's produce baskets. I think of it as one of my 'mom' duties, because six years ago I could have cared less if a tomato or mango needed a few extra days to ripen — that was before certain fruits or veggies became the only guaranteed bit of vitamins I could ensure another human being consumed, and therefore must be 'just right.'

Currently, my daughter eats tomatoes, bananas, and radishes, for some weird reason, but thinks all peel-and-eat citrus fruits are too sticky. Whereas her brother won't touch anything that ever had leaves on it unless it's covered in a generous helping of mustard ... so, more weird. But parents know this is how the world turns, usually with jelly sandwiches for kids and a glass of pinot for mommy at the end of yet another food battle, but I am trying to gain the upper hand in the war. I want green stuff in my kids' diets, and I do not want me and Matt — adorable as he is about doing the dishes — scraping peanut butter or pickle off any plates this week.

I thought Matt grew his own tomatoes, said Kitty, who was looking at some stalks of asparagus like they were little plastic-wrapped spears and not a vegetable to be consumed.

Some kind of worm is eating his plants, and he doesn't have the time to remove all the pests, so I'm filling the gap with market ones, I said. At three tomato sandwiches a day, I can't keep a big enough supply.

Sylvie still isn't eating anything but sandwiches, Kitty surmised.

How can a kid be so stubborn? It's like it's in her genes or something, I said, pretending it wasn't obvious where she inherited them. I put the kibosh on any more fish fingers and chips in the house until school starts. I'm thinking of sneaking in shredded carrots and celery with the cheese.

That's how serious I was about this, because I was feeling latent guilt for letting things slide into fast food nirvana the last couple of weeks, while we were finishing work on our business's event space for its grand debut. We'd fallen behind temporarily while planning Percy's wedding, but now that the earl had set off alone for South America, I had sent the petal cannons back to their owner and returned the tables to their vendor, and set my sights on the now-first official wedding of our event planning service.

In my house, Nathan chucked out all the unhealthy stuff because of the baby, then went out and bought it back because he thought I'd have cravings, said Kitty, who passed on the asparagus. He keeps pushing me to eat more veg. I told him I'd try. She inspected a cucumber, unenthusiastically.

I put a summer squash in my basket. It's not like you live off trash food, I said, although I knew Kitty wasn't much of a cook, and Nathan wasn't much better. Pasta, pesto, and curry are better than bangers and mash every night. Is he just concerned that prenatal vitamins aren't enough for you?

He thinks I should be a bit more enthusiastic about greens and stuff, she answered, wrinkling her nose over some wilted cilantro among the herb bundles. It's not like I come by it naturally — mum doesn't know a ripe melon from a sponge. All she ever cooks with is frozen stuff. Stuff from tins. She tossed the herb bundle into her basket.

At two months — and counting — into her pregnancy, Kitty's slender build already betrayed the first slight evidence of the baby's bump, but I envied the fact that she wouldn't be a blimp by her last trimester. Somewhere along her ancestral way, Kitty had scored the good genes responsible for making her lean and tough, yet graceful as a cat, and made her dark, loose curls and fair skin a gorgeous combination of mystery that withstood Cornwall's sun without reddening — an advantage over mine, which tended to look a little baked after a day by the shore to a shade I called 'toasted marshmallow.'

Kitty was also several years younger than me and only on baby number one. Somehow I didn't think my experience was an advantage by comparison.

He bought a cookbook, said Kitty, looking at onions now. Mexican cooking secrets from some southern California grilled food restaurant he likes. Fresh food stuff. He says we'll learn to cook together — stuff with names like 'pico' and 'street tacos,' whatever those are.

Fish tacos, I said, as I chose some brussels sprouts and wondered if they were mashed up in Heath's peanut butter, would he notice? Maybe the doctor's appointment will reassure him. Kitty was due for a prenatal check-in at the clinic for her and the baby, her first one since acknowledging that it was a baby and not the stomach flu behind her condition.

I figure he'll be worse. Nattering about healthy supplements and teas for morning sickness, snorted Kitty. That's his sort of thing.

Nathan was the overly-concerned type, it was true. I could picture him filling up cabinets with vitamins and root teas, and signing up Kitty for some sort of mind-body pregnancy classes. He was the sort of guy who would buy books on what to expect when expecting, and read online articles on the Lamaze techniques. I needed to take a page out of his book, however, when it came to dedication to change.

I'm making a vow to get control of my life again, I said, selecting a cauliflower, then putting it back. No way either of my kids would eat that. Eliminate chaos and stress. I should sweep that layer of dust off the furniture at home. Try turning the tide in the sea of toys that has taken over my living room.

Eat things called rutabagas? Kitty held up one, arching one eyebrow.

Anything I can disguise in cheesy pasta, I answered, although the vegetable I selected instead was some celery, which would work either in Matt's soups or maybe a goulash. Would kids eat goulash if it was covered in American-style ranch dressing?

I moved into the 'furrin vegetables' as my friend Dovie referred to them, the specialty imported foods that included exotic fruits and some very familiar garden varieties from the States, which is where I bought my favorite yellow squash fruits, okra, and a type of Indian melon that Matt liked. I reached for it at the same time as another customer, Cherish Dennai, the wife of a highly-successful business solicitor currently working in Truro, and the newest member of our local tourism council

Fancy seeing you here, she teased, as we smiled. And I thought my husband was the only one who liked these. They're not sweet enough for me.

Me, neither, I said. But Matt loves them, so I buy some for him to eat in his salads. When he eats them. Lately, to my chagrin, Matt had been too busy, relying on packs of nuts and raisins from his coat pockets for lunch, and tins of soup for dinner.

I'm happy to find you two here, she remarked, noticing Kitty behind me, examining some dried berries — with lack of enthusiasm, yet again. I had thought about stopping by your shop earlier today.

Really? I said. Do you need our fabulous event planning services for your next dinner party? I was joking — Cherish did a lot of entertaining, but not the kind of gatherings that required anybody else's time or instincts to plan.

No, for a friend of mine, she said. I thought it would be an excellent opportunity for your business, and it would help her with a difficulty involving her wedding.

A wedding. My ears perked up immediately. How so? I asked. You know we're always keen on new customers. Frankly, any customers were fine, as most small business owners would confess.

Her planner cancelled on her suddenly, due to a family emergency. It put her in an unfortunate position, because she was in the beginning stages of planning a very large formal wedding. She's a bit shy about whom to choose next, but I've told her that you've planned some very impressive events in the past.

Back when I was still an employee at the local manor Cliffs House, I had helped organize everything from celebrity weddings to an operatic star's private concert for television. These must be the ones Cherish meant, since Kitty and I had only planned smaller, local events since we opened our doors.

We'd love to help, obviously, I said. If she would like to meet with us, we would love to hear her ideas, and show her our portfolio.

I'll call her and see if I can convince her to set up an appointment, said Cherish. I'm very excited to see the new venue when it opens, by the way. She selected a melon for her basket. Ta ta, ladies.

When she was out of earshot, I turned to Kitty and grinned. Did you hear that? I said. Cherish is recommending us to her friends.

She's the type who's always telling her friends to try little bistros and organic vegan pasties, I reckon.

You know how keen she is on promoting local small businesses, I said. We've been hoping we'd land clients from her friends, ever since she nominated us for the guest list for the local business and tourism council’s ball.

Cherish Dennai had helped us out by putting us on the business invite list for an exclusive charity fundraiser, just when we had given up hope that some of the business council's snootier members would ever take notice of us. If she was recommending us to her friends, it would be a wholehearted recommendation.

You think she'll call? Kitty gave me a look — not completely skeptical, but getting close.

I think she will, and we need her to, I said. We need posh clients to balance the regular ones — and we definitely need wedding clients like this one. We can finally build the reputation we've wanted.

We thought of ourselves as 'wedding rescuers' for anybody who found themselves suddenly overwhelmed by the big day's details, but that wasn't an easy angle to market, not in a place where people didn't routinely hire event planners for their big day. But a wedding like this one, if it made our client happy, would spread the word across the county in a big way. Society weddings had a habit of doing things like that.

Speaking of weddings, we need to stop by and lock up since the workmen moved their stuff out of the barn today, I said. One last inspection.

Our site's original work projection had been for autumn, but the expensive building crew that Nathan had chosen had done miracles in a matter of weeks. The supports stabilized, the electrical work finished, the floor laid — the price that they quoted had been worth it, in my opinion, even though Kitty was still guilting him for the choice. It hadn't come strictly out of our business budget, as the two of us had planned.

Mum offered to come help clean, but I stopped by the manor one day and talked to Clemmie and Ella. They're coming to help clear away the dust now the crew's leaving. Kitty paid for her groceries right behind me. I looked back, wondering now if I should have tried for the cauliflower. Maybe mixed into some mashed potatoes, it would have gone undetected by my children's taste buds.

Good, I said. I'm getting excited about our first wedding, I said, since Percy's didn't count, having failed to reach the all-important ceremony. It'll be our first official wedding rescue, and the bride was thrilled when I told her that tight deadlines are no problem.

Who is she? Kitty asked.

I don't know her personally — she's not from the village, but she just moved to Par. She's some kind of interior designer, or so I gathered from what she told me when she called. She saw one of our cards in a florist's shop where she does business. She sounded excited to meet us.

If it's the appointment on Saturday, I won't be there, said Kitty. I have to meet with the caterers for the autumn wine tasting at the manor.

They're not using Michael? The chef at Cliffs House was a culinary genius, whose onion tartlets could cure the world's depression with a single bite of their delectable flakiness, I sometimes thought.

It's the new society president. I tried to convince him, but he had some other place in mind, answered Kitty. She shrugged. It wasn't worth the fight.

We walked out into the sunshine of a beautiful afternoon in Ceffylgwyn — the same sleepy Cornish village where I had moved nine years ago, when I was a young new event planner, hired by the local manor to plan events even more posh than whatever Cherish's friend had in mind. It had won me over in no time — the house, with its breathtaking view of the sea from on high — my charming employers, the quiet little village where everybody knew everybody, and, of course, the handsome botanist-turned-gardener-for-hire Matthew Rose. Even the feud over the village's correct — or Cornish — spelling of its name had me hooked.

Back then, jokes about his smoldering Poldark looks and his hidden genius flew over my head, but they came to land firmly after only a short season in this place. I put down roots, built a career, then built a business with my former assistant.

That was the second most important decision of my life, opening Save the Date with Kitty. We took over the building formerly tenanted by a local florist, but the pride of our operation was our new event site, which was almost ready after months of work.

I opened up the doors to the old barn, at the head of the paving stone path Matt had laid for us last week. It was dark inside, except for the rosy glow from the high window, which landed on the empty spot where we usually kept a jumble of furniture that we had now finally put into place.

We left the barn's interior its rustic self — old stone, old wood beams crossing above, where the old loft that had fallen through had been ripped out ages ago. The high window, once gaps for birds to fly inside, now covered by the rosy Tiffany-esque antique stained glass we had installed, giving the place a hallowed, cathedral-like feeling.

When it was still the old Russert barn, local kids would play here, and probably sneaked their first cigarettes and first kisses here, too — Kitty herself was one of them, a notorious juvenile apple thief in the Russert orchard's history. Now, some of those same kids would probably have their wedding breakfasts in these halls, and dance to the local troyls band or a deejay hired from Newquay.

The old buffet renovated by Kitty was now a stately piece of furniture which gleamed from its newly-refinished wood. The heavy banquet table we planned to place in the middle and formally set to show off to prospective clients sat to one side, with the row of matching chairs.

It was ready for action. The plank floor beneath us was new, laid over the cobbled stones that had somehow lost a few over the years, and weren't exactly suited to dancing. Now we could roll out carpets, drape the walls with colored panels, add flowers and lighting — or keep the place as stripped-down and rustic as a client wanted.

We stepped inside. The quiet enhanced the hallowed feel of this place in late afternoon, and for a moment I felt like I'd stepped into the cathedral at Truro instead. Well, a very plain Norman countryside version of it. The dust filtering through the colored light reminded me that we had to clear away the dust from our lighting fixture's installation before we had our clients visit, however.

Think it'll impress them? Kitty asked, archly, as she checked the switch to the lights. The two old-fashioned dark brass chandeliers hanging from the crossbeams that concealed their wiring, glowed on, then off, then dimmed as she moved the smart switch.

I think so. We can make this place look fantastic with the right inspiration, I said. I'm hoping they'll decide either to have the ceremony or the reception here. I was itching to start decorating this place for a real event — to unpack all those extra touches we had in our storage shed, from vases to perfect-size folding tables, and lay out some client's vision of their happy day.

Kitty switched off the lamps and tucked her hands in her jeans pockets. I think we did all right, she said, shrugging as she looked around. Maybe someone will even ask us to do it up proper.

She smirked, which meant she was teasing me. Not everybody wants their big day at the Golden Perch, I said, naming one of the local fancy tea houses that tended to be the favorites with anybody interested in 'a bit of posh,' as my friend Pippa used to say. It wasn't cheap to hire one of those rooms, and the look tended to be the same for every event hosted at one — lots of gilded ornaments and chintz wallpaper, which always put me in mind of the chintz rose sofa in the parlor of the local inn the Dumnonian, which reeked of old perfumed air fresheners.

We pulled the heavy double doors shut behind us and locked them. You know, that old pink tin Victorian dollhouse of yours is still in the shed, I said. Maybe you should take it home and use it to decorate your nursery, since you loved it so as a kid. Kitty used to come here and play with it when it was an old castoff toy among the barn's junk.

Kitty snorted. Probably my spawn would bash it to bits, she said. My lot's destructive in our youth. Me mum's always telling me how when I was two, I dropped a whole tea tray on the floor, and clapped my hands and crowed when it smashed.

You know, you're not carrying another Saul or Silas in there, I said, referring to Kitty's two shiftless cousins, always in the thick of trouble locally. Your kid will probably be uber-organized, like you. They'll be like Nathan, arranging little conferences for the dolls, or turning it into a toy bed and breakfast.

Nice try, muttered Kitty.

Boy or girl? I asked. Which are you hoping for? Nathan would be happy either way, but Kitty might have a preference. Then again, she was still afraid that it was either herself or one of her cousins she was carrying. A wild child juvenile apple thief or a future pub-dwelling troublemaker.

She shrugged. In my family, anything's trouble, so it doesn't much matter.

Just as I expected. Despite this dubious talk about her future as a mother, I thought Kitty would be great at it in her own way.

My former employer Lady Amanda had taken my two kids and her son Edwin for a day out today, so I was probably coming home to an empty house. I walked up the path to our little whitewashed cottage, where Matt's hollyhocks ran wild from the front windows to the curious red chimney, and a little pink-flower groundcover had advanced to the cracks between the stones.

The creaky little gate swung shut behind me, belonging to the modern fence our former landlady had put up some years ago from one of those little mail-order kits, and which ran the gauntlet along the back shrubbery. Behind the cottage, Matt's kitchen garden showed signs of neglect due to his busyness right now, but the flower beds and the manicured roses were still in the flush of bloom, including the one climbing the greenhouse's corner.

I let myself in through the kitchen door, and dropped my shopping on the table. Since I had given up my beloved high-heeled shoes for the most part, I kicked off a pair of sandals on the rug by the door, where Matt's wellies, Heath's tiny green flip-flops, and a collection of rain forest action figures were piled.

Hello? I called out, in case Amanda had let herself in, but I knew the answer already since I didn't hear any screams, wails, or small, accusing voices in the air. It's just me.

I heard the front door close in the parlor. Julianne? It was Matt's voice.

In here, I called. The kids are still gone. I'm unpacking groceries. I rubbed one foot, having stepped on a plastic army man I had failed to spot in time. We needed to get this place under control, I thought, looking around at the mail piled on the counter, nudged to the edge by the junk piled on our counters. It was just as bad in the parlor, where the great sea of toys was stemmed only by Matt's research books, castoff summer beach gear, and all the throws and pillows that Matt continually evicted from our sofa.

He came in now, and despite the annoyance I felt at the thought of my grandmother's needlepoint pillows tossed in the corner, I couldn't stay irritated when he looked at me the way he was doing right now, leaning in the doorway of our kitchen in gardening clothes that were going to need extra stain treatments on the trouser knees. Since Matt had taken up professional gardening over teaching at a university, I had more laundry on my hands than ever before.

Still, the bare fact is, he looked good like that. As much as I admired him in tweeds or charcoal grey wool, the best version of him would always be the one from the day I first met him, when he was dressed like this. Tall, dark, and covered in garden mulch and soil. This was how his rugged good looks had gone unobserved that first time, as mollified me listened to a scolding for trampling his naturalized beds of protected heath varieties along the path to the estate's cliffs. It was worth all the loads with extra detergent to wash out all the grime.

Long day? I asked him, lifting one corner of my mouth in a smile. His lips twitched.

Only when I'm losing patience with the final stages of my project, he said. Which is every other minute, at least. A rueful smile. What about you?

You know. The usual. On the phone with the wine tasting's organizers, on the phone with the marquees rental company. Buying veg that will rot in our refrigerator. I looked down. Preparing to go get a broom and sweep up the mud my husband's walking boots are leaving on our floor.

Sorry. I didn't think you would be here to know, he said. I thought I had time to tidy.

I shook my head. I don't really care, I said. Adding cleaning floors to my list of battles seemed like no big deal right now. "The kids will probably bring who knows what