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rest of the guests, who were trying to decide whether to laugh or cry at the destruction of the beautiful setup.

Beatrice stood with Lachlan, holding his hand, her pale blush-colored dress wet and clinging to her legs. The storm had come just as the last (and late) guest Victoria had arrived with Red on her arm, her hair down and a pale blue dress swirling about her like its own storm. They’d both drawn every eye to them as they sidled to the front and took two seats, cuddled together like nesting birds.

With one loud crack of thunder and a wind that blew sideways, a dark cloud had dumped rain as everyone ran for shelter. The pop-up storm left as quickly as it had arrived, and now they all stared at the mess from Beatrice’s covered back porch.

Beatrice glanced down to her brick-walled yard. The caterers in their white aprons were trying to right the small tent; a tall man with windswept hair from the rental company was fixing chairs right, and picking up tossed flowers: the roses and ranunculus that Beatrice had grown in her own garden, the peonies she’d had imported, and the palmetto leaves she’d gathered with Lachlan from his yard. All sent asunder.

A server in a black suit climbed up the back stairs balancing a tray of champagne. He stepped onto the porch and handed them out. While Lachlan and Beatrice decided what to do next, at least their thirty guests could have something to drink.

Rose, stunning in her simple green dress, and alone, was the first to make her way to Beatrice. “They say that rain is a blessing at a wedding.”

Beatrice smiled at her friend, now living only a few blocks away. “Will this go in your novel?”

Rose laughed and winked. “Everything goes in the novel.”

Daisy, standing next to Rose in a pink off-the-shoulder gown, smiled coyly. “I’ll sue you for defamation. Or slander. Or something, unless I’m the heroine who rights all wrongs and—”

“You’re always the heroine.” Rose linked her arm through Daisy’s just as Victoria and Red arrived, gently pushing aside guests to stand on the other side of Lachlan.

“What novel? What are you talking about?” Victoria’s low voice had them all turning to her.

Red reached up to remove a leaf that had blown and lodged itself in her waves.

Daisy raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know about this?”

“No.” Victoria made a pouty face and took Red’s hand. “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” Beatrice reached out and touched Victoria’s arm. “If you weren’t always hidden away on some island . . .”

Red and Victoria looked to each other and smiled. “Tell me anyway.”

“Rose, our beloved swan, has slipped back into her feathers.”

Victoria looked to Rose. “This is true? Tell me.”

“I left Chip.” She grinned. “Chip. Chip. Chip.” She paused for their smiles. “Anyway, it’s not final or anything, but I told him I needed to go, after what he did, that this is what I needed. So I’ve rented a house here in Savannah, only a few blocks from our Pegasus and near the library. I started a novel. It’s called . . . The Roommates.”

“Oh wow!” Victoria disengaged from Red. “Do you tell all our stories?”

“It’s a cross between Sibley’s bird guides and Lord of the Flies.” She grinned with a mischievous glint in her eye. “A story about how one day, a long time ago, roommates chose a bird icon and then flew off to their own worlds, to then come together years later and change each other’s lives for good.”

Daisy threw back her head and laughed. “So total fiction.”

“Totally.” Rose smiled.

Victoria smiled. “That is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Lachlan, so handsome in his tuxedo and trimmed silver beard, looking like he should be on top of a cake, looked back and forth between the women and then held up his hand. “Ladies. Ladies. This is about a wedding. Not your old college days.” His grin belied his admonishing words as he kissed Beatrice on the lips.

The preacher, their friend Harold Morris, his clerical collar whipped sideways from the wind, and his coat unbuttoned, edged up and interrupted in full fix-it mode. “Okay, I can clear the aisle by dragging out the palm leaves. The band can set up again and . . . I’ll check with the caterer how much of the food was destroyed.” He pointed down where two men in white chef coats were struggling to lift the left end of the tent.

Beatrice glanced around. There were only thirty people in total at the wedding and they all fit on her porch, disheveled and wet for their wedding. It was surreal to her how they’d come to this.

He’d not hesitated and now she wouldn’t either. On that rain-soaked porch Beatrice threw her arms around Lachlan and dropped her forehead to his, kissed him. “Let’s just get married right here on the porch with our dearest friends, our soaked clothes, and our vows. Right now.”

“Let’s,” he said. “I never wanted anything fancy. I only wanted you for my wife.”

“We don’t need anything cleaned up or fixed up. We took a chance with an outdoor wedding and, well . . .”

He touched her cheek. “I will always take whatever chances you want. I love you so, Beatrice.”

“I love you, too, Lachlan. So much. And you will always be the man I take the chance with. Every. Single. Day.”

And those were the vows Beatrice uttered: that she would take a chance on love with Lachlan every single day. By her side, on a soaked porch with the people she loved most, Beatrice said, “I do.”

About Patti Callahan

Patti Callahan by Bud Johnson Photography

PATTI CALLAHAN is the USA Today bestselling author of fifteen novels including the historical fiction Becoming Mrs. Lewis: The Improbable Love Story of Joy Davidman and C.S. Lewis and Surviving Savannah. In addition, she is the recipient of the Harper Lee Distinguished Writer of the Year for 2020 and the Alabama Library Association Book of the Year for 2019 and the Christy Award—a 2019 Winner “Book of the Year.” The