“I'm not a complete cretin. And it's fun when somebody else is not only paying for it all, but paying me as well."

“What are these girls like?" Shelley asked.

“I've never met them. I just sent them samples of the fabric, told them to choose a style and go to the seamstress. It was a breeze… until I called each of them last week to see how their dresses had turned out and realized Mrs. Crossthwait was falling behind in her sewing. I think we're almost there. Check the map.”

There was a split rail fence running along the right side of the road with heavy woods behind it. The turn into the drive was unmarked and almost invisible. The long drive twisted and turned through the woods and emerged at the erstwhile monastery. It was an old unadorned clapboard building, suiting the simplicity of the religious order by whom it had been originally constructed. It had a vaguely barn-like look due to the scarce and small windows on the first floor, but the second floor, while obviously old as well,was clearly an addition. It had a steep roof with scattered dormers. There was a long wing to the left of the two-story section. It, too, looked like the ground floor was original and the upper story was an addition. The structure had a number of outbuildings and additions as well.

“It's not where I'd pick to get married," Shelley said. "What would you call this style? Midwestern wooden Gothic?"

“It looks vaguely Russian to me," Jane said. "All it's lacking is the onion dome.

As she spoke, an old man came shuffling around the corner of the house, stopped abruptly, and eyed them with suspicion. Jane hopped out of the car and approached him. "You must be Joe," she said, feeling the honorific "Uncle" was inappropriate and having no idea what his surname might be.

“That's right, missy," he growled. "And who might you be?"

“I'm Jane Jeffry. The wedding planner. I wrote you that my friend and I would be here today.”