Melinda spread bolts of ribbon across her table like battle maps. Birch-white. Charcoal. Bloodhowl crimson. She tapped each with the end of her stick as if she could summon the right shade by intimidation alone.
“Lanterns in the trees,” my mother said, already plucking through a basket of pinecones and winter berries. “Warm light, not torches. The grove looks softer that way. And I want winter roses on the arch if the hothouse cooperates. If not, we use fir and juniper and pretend it was always the plan,” Amy sat hip-to-hip with me on the bench, watching the ribbon get measured like it might bite.
“We could…not have an arch,” she offered. “We could just use the stones. They are beautiful without dressing them like a cart in a parade,”
“I like the stones,” I said, grateful for the ally.
