Every Other Saturday by M.J. Pullen Page B

lobbied for her right up until the end, until his parents finally overcame them both, getting them to “see reason” and imploring them on behalf of the older guests. When his mother implied that some of the great-aunts and uncles might keep their gift checks in their pockets if they thought the music sounded like “tuneless shrieking,” Adam had turned and Julia was defeated. It was one of the earliest and most bitter regrets she had about their marriage.
    She hoped Brandon was okay. He had stayed with Elizabeth many times with few problems, but Lyric was a new element: neither of the kids had friends spend the night yet. She hoped Bran wasn’t at home going berserk because of the invasion of his usual environment.
    Her thoughts went next to the store. Only two people had returned her calls on overdue credit accounts: one to say she was calling the wrong number, the other to inform her that a long-standing but infrequent customer had died suddenly, leaving a pile of bills behind and no money to pay them. When she tried to clear her head of this thought, she was annoyed to find herself considering whether Dave Bernstein was cute, and wondering how his first date was going.
    “Pretty intense about the floral arrangements, aren’t ya?” The deep voice with a soft Irish accent startled her out of her reverie. She turned to see Caroline’s bartender—oh God, what was his name?—dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, holding two cases of wine. He had thick red hair with blonde streaks and curls that any woman would envy, short on the sides and carefully sculpted in a pompadour style on top of his head. His freckled forearms flexed under the strain of the boxes.
    “Oh, sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just…thinking.”
    “Dangerous activity around here.” He grinned. “Caroline wants you at the prep area when you’re done out here.”
    “Okay,” Julia said, still trying to think of his name. It was an S name; she was sure of that. “Do you need a hand?”
    He laughed. “Thanks darlin’ but if I can’t manage a couple of wine boxes at the beginning of the night, I need to find a new place.”
    He turned and wove his way out between the round, linen-draped tables. Julia followed him. “How long have you been working for Caroline?”
    “You mean ‘with Caroline’? None of us work for her. She’s insistent.”
    Julia allowed a soft phhhbt to escape her lips and then corrected it with a cough. Caroline would not be thrilled if Julia fostered mutiny her first night here. She really must try harder to show her gratitude. Caroline was making it possible for her to pay her bills, after all.
    “It’s been two and a half years,” he was saying. Not Seamus... Sean . Definitely Sean. “I came on before wedding season three years ago. Now that was an eye-opener.”
    “I imagine it gets pretty crazy,” Julia said.
    “Busy-crazy I can handle. I tended bar at Trinity College in Dublin.” They were out of the reception tent now, and he raised an auburn eyebrow at her as she jog-stepped to keep up with him.
    I should have worn more comfortable shoes . She curled her toes in a vain attempt to hold her shoes on and preserve her wobbly ankles on the rocky ground.
    “But American weddings? It’s a whole different brand of crazy. Fifty-year-old women having catfights on the dance floor. Groomsmen getting completely locked and falling into the wedding cake. More drama than Real Housewives .”
    “Sounds…entertaining,” she said uncertainly. Truthfully, none of this sounded entertaining in the least. Cute (young) guy and sexy accent aside, Julia wanted to be at home, eating popcorn and watching Disney movies with her kids, not wobbling around on feet that would be bloody stumps by the end of the night, trying to keep the mothers of the bride and groom from tearing each other apart. They passed by the bar area now, and Sean hefted the boxes onto a side table with practiced ease.
    “Sometimes. Mostly