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And no one wants a real guy, especially one like him—he’d just reject us normal people, and then we’d never be able to enjoy his music again.”
    “Hey, it’s not that bad.” I went back to my seat behind the counter, studying my to-do list. “These guys have to marry someone, and why not a down-to-earth girl? I mean look at Elizabeth and Darcy in Pride and Prejudice .”
    “. . . who aren’t real.” Ann-Marie lifted her face from the pillows.
    “No, but . . .” I crammed my brain for a real couple. “Well, let’s just say that there are a lot of real people who get married.” I smirked before I cracked a joke, “Maybe more than fictional people.”
    Ann-Marie’s smile grew. “Yeah. I mean, people are only people. You strip them of their skin and they’re all just skeletons inside.”
    My own smile froze. Too late I realized that while I’d thought I was philosophizing, I had actually encouraged Ann-Marie to go after the rock star. “But we should really give Dancey his space,” I said. “I bet the last thing he wants is to be bombarded by fans. He just needs to be treated like a normal guy.”
    “I plan on it.” She rose from the couch with a determined air. Throwing her glorious hair behind her shoulder, she cracked her knuckles and retreated from the room with a flounce. A complicated concert went off in the Allenham Lounge in the short amount of time it took Ann-Marie to find her piano bench.
    I groaned when I recognized the remake of “Fur Elise.” It was her theme music dedicated to the times when she was deeply and passionately in love.
    This would not go well. I knew how she treated normal guys. Will Dancey had no idea what he was in for.

Chapter 3
     
    “I am worn out with civility.”
     
    —Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

    A woman pulled up to North Abbey in a BMW convertible. She wore huge sunglasses, one of those fancy, oversized floppy hats, perfect make-up, and a sundress that showed off her every curve—or lack of them. She’d make heroin-addicts everywhere jealous.
    She lifted one of her rail-like arms and pressed down on the horn. My eagerness to check in Taylor’s wedding guest evaporated like a magician’s rabbit as I searched around for anyone to help me. All of the golf carts were taken. The maids were off making the rooms presentable. Freddy Tiney was on a run for more detergent. The job was up to me. I hurried outside, hoping I didn’t look like I had to run.
    “Welcome to North Abbey, ma’am,” I said as I approached.
    She took her hand off the horn and pulled her shades down so that she could peer at me over the rims. “Mrs. Bertram-Rush, if you please.” She wriggled her ring finger so that I couldn’t miss the sparkling diamond weighing it down. “I’m the maid of honor.”
    Though technically her married state made her the matron of honor, I nodded. “Yes.” I fought the urge to curtsy—or laugh. All of Taylor’s bridesmaids were her friends from a tightknit community in Massachusetts. They had attended private schools together, roomed in college, and their parents belonged to the same clubs. Looking at Mrs. Bertram-Rush, I guessed Taylor’s friends were like bad habits—hard to quit.
    “Taylor has told me so much about you,” I said.
    “Has she?” She snapped her shades back up, turning away to stare off into the distance, dismissing me. Her pink-and-white polka-dot luggage next to her lap yipped, and I realized that it held a living teddy bear. At least, the tiny puppy looked like a stuffed animal, except for the black eyes that blinked up at me from a white, furry face.
    This woman was really Taylor’s best friend? She could pass as a desperate housewife from Orange County. In my mind’s eye Bertie’s sun hat transformed into a chip straw hat with a riot of flowers and ribbons dangling from the brim. I didn’t have to imagine anything different in regards to her face. It was already gaunt and drawn like a Jane Austen villainess—though