She’s still standing on her tiptoes, inside her heels, craning her neck like there she’s missing out on a glance at the Hope Diamond.
She’s not. It’s just Montgomery, my boss and, I assume, also hers; a sixty-something Southern man with an accent and personal style that’s much more Gone With the Wind than Duck Dynasty.
It’s fitting, given that he runs Bramblebush Farm and has apparently done so for about twenty years. The whole place is also much more Gone With the Wind than Duck Dynasty, even though it’s at odds with everything else in Sprucevale.
When it was founded, Sprucevale was a coal mining town. Or, at least, it was until the coal ran out. Ever since then it’s been trying to recover.
Bramblebush is beautiful. It’s opulent. It’s luxurious. It’s exclusive, an escape for the upper class, where they can come and have their every whim catered to without ever having to see any of those poor people they’ve heard so much about.
Sprucevale, on the other hand, isn’t opulent or luxurious or exclusive. It’s a working-class town filled with working class people who figured out how to survive once the mines shut down. It’s small. It’s tight-knit. Everyone feels like family, for better or for worse.
Admittedly, Bramblebush Farm’s existence probably helps. A beautiful, secluded retreat for the one percent, it mostly functions as a wedding venue. Despite having a price tag of $150,000 — just to use the space, nothing else — I learned that morning that it was currently booked almost every weekend at least two years in advance.
Four years for summer wedding dates. I can’t imagine either of those things: paying that much for a wedding or wanting to wait four years to get hitched once I decide to do it.
Not that I’m in any danger of deciding to get married. Not that I particularly suspect I ever will be, given that I’m nearly thirty and I’ve never gotten remotely close.
Marriage seems nice, but it also seems like it’s for other people.
“All right. John, you got anything else?” Montgomery asks, looking off to one side.
I resist to urge to tell Violet what he just said, because I think she might actually strangle me if I do. Besides, sooner or later I should remember that I’m at work.
“Nothing here, Montgomery,” said a voice I assume is John in an old-school, charming, laid-back southern accent.
“I guess we’re on to the main event,” Montgomery said.
The assembled staff members — fifty or so — all go perfectly silent and still. Even Violet stands up straighter.
I slip my hands into my pockets, wondering what the main event is.
“This year we’ve got quite a slate of weddings on our hands,” Montgomery says, his aristocratic voice flowing out over the audience. “In fact, I daresay this is going to be our biggest wedding season ever.”
He pauses. You could hear a pin drop in the silence.
It’s obvious that something big is happening, and I’ve got no idea what.
“Among other guests, we’ll be hosting the wedding of the tech billionaire Sergei Volkov’s son, and the heir to the Pillsbury flour fortune.”
The room shifts impatiently. I wonder what kind of appetizers the Pillsbury heiress will order. If you’re heir to a flour fortune, do you love baked goods, or are you tired of them?
“And of course, as many of you already know,” he goes on, “this August, Bramblebush will be hosting its first-ever royal wedding.”
Gasps arise from the crowd. Violet doesn’t seem to react at all. I wonder what kind of royalty is getting married in an out-of-the-way spot in southwestern Virginia. Probably one of those tiny countries in Europe — San Marino or Luxembourg or somewhere inconsequential that still has a royal family by accident.
“Now, I can’t tell you all who the royal wedding is for until we get a little closer, but I can tell you that this year the bonus for the MVP staff member is a little bit higher than it’s been in the past,” he says, still in absolutely no rush to get to the point. “This summer is going to be a whole lot of hard work, but maybe this’ll spice things up a little.”
The room practically hums with anticipation.
“This year’s,” he says, giving his words the weight of an announcement. “Most Valuable Player Bramblebush Staff Star Award. Will be. In the amount of.”
Everyone holds their breath. I hold my breath.
“Twenty thousand dollars!”
Everyone gasps. The room is instantly in an uproar. The guy next to me whistles. Violet claps both her hands to her mouth. The woman next to her turns and asks Violet if Montgomery really said twenty thousand, and Violet just nods.
“Okay, everyone!” Montgomery calls from the front of the room, waving his hands like that could calm us down from the revelation that twenty big ones were up for grabs. “You’ve all got a royal wedding to thank, they’re very interested in maintaining their privacy. All right, folks, there’s pie and coffee along the back wall. Here’s to wedding season!”