The Wedding Caper by Janice Thompson Page A

her jeweled sunglasses. Sheila caught them with
her index finger and pressed them back in place. What a diva.
    As she
headed my way, I took in the rest of her outfit: The bright teal sweater and
black jogging pants seemed to suit her, and the hot pink trim on the new tennis
shoes finished off the colorful ensemble. Girl, you are something else.
Everything about this woman just screamed menopausal.
    And I
totally got it. Which is why inviting her along suddenly felt just right.
    Sasha and
I met her at the door, tail wagging—Sasha’s, not mine.
    “Hey,
girl!”
    Sheila
and I both spoke in unison, then the chuckling began.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d have to say we weren’t just kindred spirits,
we were “sisters from another mister” as Sheila liked to call us.
    Within
minutes I’d loaded my bags and we were on our way. In true Sheila form, the
chattering began right off. She caught me up on all the action I’d missed at
the political league and I offered up a sigh, along with an apology for my
latest absence.
    She
shushed my concerns with the wave of a hand. “You’ve got daughters to marry
off. We all know that. Besides, if you stay away long enough, they might elect
me president. So, take your time.”
    After
that laughter we dove into a lengthy dialogue about Brandi’s registry items and
Candy’s cake selection. Unlike Warren, Sheila really seemed to appreciate the
self-made humor behind my Don’t-forget-to-register-for-your-toilet-paper joke.
    She got
me. And that felt mighty good. So good, in fact, that I nearly forgot about the
$25,000. Nearly forgot about the mental image of Warren in a Pennsylvania State
Penitentiary jump suit.
    Nearly.
    We
arrived in Lancaster in record time, and then turned off on a country road
toward the smaller Amish communities I’d grown to love. Apparently Sheila
didn’t make it out to the Pennsylvania Dutch country very often, as was
evidenced by her fascination with every shop and restaurant along the way. The
childlike “oohs” and “ aahs ” warmed my heart.
    Her
fascination ended, however, as we encountered our umpteenth Amish buggy. She
didn’t seem to handle them with the same degree of kindness I would have
displayed, had I been the one behind the wheel. Let’s just say, the words,
“Hey, mister, could you speed that thing up a little?” were a bit overused that
day.
    As we
rounded the corner to the Heritage House Bed and Breakfast, my heart soared.
The surrounding property took my breath away, and the farmhouse, quaint and
lovely, drew me with its simple charm. Colorful leaves had fallen in abundance
offering up a dizzying scene of reds, golds , and
browns. I drank it all in and whispered, “Oh, God! You have surely kissed this
place with your beauty.”
    Sheila
let out a whistle as we pulled to a stop. “You should’ve warned me,” she said
with a look of awe. “I would’ve brought my tissues. And some theme music.”
    “I knew
you would love it. I just knew it.”
    For a
moment we sat in blissful silence. Words would have spoiled everything, so I
listened, instead, with every one of my senses.
    Finally, a
stirring on the driver’s side roused us from our trance-like state. A portly
woman in traditional Amish dress rapped on the driver’s side window. Sheila
pushed the button to lower the glass.
    “ Wilkum ! Are you the Peterson party?” the woman asked. She
ran her fingers along the edges of her white Kapp and
I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever tired of wearing it.
    We nodded
in unison, as kindred spirits would.
    The jolly
woman let out a laugh. “Well, get on inside, you’s two! We’re about to serve lunch and you don’t want to miss it. I’ve prepared a
lovely ham, and a huge crock of the best corn chowder you ever tasted. And I
just pulled a loaf of fresh bread from the oven.”
    “ Mmm mmm .” Sheila and I spoke in
unison again and my stomach rumbled in anticipation.
    The
proprietor, who introduced herself as Mrs. Lapp,