Page 36 of Marry Me Tomorrow
Beside me, I feel Trent tense, no doubt worrying about the stunt we’re pulling with this wedding. Without thinking, I rest a hand lightly on his leg, giving it a gentle squeeze. He glances at me, his shoulders easing ever so slightly.
“The marriage does seem sudden,” Trent says, “but I assure you that this engagement isn’t some quick decision.”
“When Trent and I met,” I add, addressing Samson directly, “things seemed to click for us in a way I can’t quite explain. Trent is an incredible person, and I’m lucky to have him in my life.”
Samson studies us for a moment. “Those are wonderful sentiments, you two,” he says, his voice soft. “But words are easy. It’s the actions that prove if something is real. A marriage is more than an engagement and a wedding.”
“That’s very true,” Mr. Hughes says.
“Winifred,” Samson continues, “my wife of fifty-two years, was the love of my life, the other half of my soul. We built the marina together from the ground up, and she poured more spirit into that place than I ever could. I want to honor her and our legacy by making sure the marina is passed down to a couple who shares the same love we had.” Samson gestures to Mr. and Mrs. Hughes. “These two managed the place and brought a love to it for years. Trent, you’ve done wonderfully too, but it does need a woman’s touch. That’s something a man can’t bring. That marina needs a true partnership to keep it alive. Do you two have that?”
“Did anyone tell you,” I say, “about the day Trent and I met?”
All four sets of eyes turn to me. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Hughes look curious, Samson seems intrigued, and Trent—his gaze steady—looks at me with quiet calmness.
“I actually don’t think anyone has,” Mrs. Hughes says. “Why don’t you tell us, dear?”
I smile and take a deep breath, organizing my thoughts. “Well,” I begin, “I’d been having one of the worst days. I’d just gotten some not-so-great news, and the stress of other things going on in my life had consumed me to the point where I wasn’t paying attention to the world around me. And I’m not exaggerating—Trent quite literally saved me. I was so distracted that I nearly stepped out into traffic, but Trent pulled me back just before I got hit. He took the brunt of the fall himself when I lost my balance. It was such a small moment in the grand scheme of things, but for me, it changed everything, like I was given a second chance at life.”
The dining room remains silent for several seconds, the weight of my words settling over the table.
“I mentioned before that I’m an artist,” I say, looking at Samson. “At the time, I’d lost all desire to paint. With the pain of losing my grandmother earlier in the year, and the stress of everything else going on during that time, life had just . . . dulled for me. But after Trent saved me, he made sure I was okay and even took me to For the Love of Sugar for a treat. Wouldn’t you know it, while I sat there smelling the savory scent of baked goods, I found myself sketching again. It wasn’t much—just a simple sketch—but it reignited something in me. Ever since then, I’ve had my vision back, my passion for creating.”
I pause, letting the memory wash over me before continuing. “So that was the day we met—the day my life took a turn for the better. And since then, I’ve seen firsthand how much Trent cares about the things and people he loves. He’s dedicated, compassionate, and driven. He has a passion for life and cares with all his being about succeeding and making his family proud. If there’s anyone who can make the marina thrive, it’s him.”
A sniffle breaks the silence, and I turn to see Mrs. Hughes dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “That was so lovely,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “I knew my Trent was a good man.”
Mr. Hughes reaches for her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “We did a good job raising him,” he says softly.
Trent, for his part, remains silent beside me. I’m too nervous to look at him directly, afraid he’ll see what I’m trying to keep buried—the fact that I might be falling for him, agreement or no agreement.
Samson remains silent, his soft expression thoughtful as he studies me. After a long pause, he clears his throat and says, “What I want to know is what you sketched that day.”
“Oh,” I say, waving my hand dismissively, “you don’t really want to know.”
“I really do,” Samson says, with a warm smile.
I hesitate, but the gentle encouragement and approval in his eyes remind me of my own grandpa. Taking a deep breath, I glance at Trent and finally confess, “It was a sketch of Trent.”
Chapter 15
Trent
Beginning my rounds at the marina, I’m still shaken from dinner last night—keeping the truth from my family and Jenny’s revelation about sketching me. The dampness of morning dew clings to the grass, and the faint smell of lake water mingles with the earthy aroma of pine. The sun is still low, casting long shadows across the docks. My footsteps echo faintly on the wooden planks as I walk, each creak a reminder of the countless mornings I’ve spent here.
I’m hoping to find Henry. With the wedding only two days away, I feel the need to talk to him about Jenny.
Last night, Jenny had no trouble convincing Grandfather that we were together for the right reasons. Grandfather even seemed to genuinely like Jenny. I could have kissed her for how well she handled everything. It was all a relief, really, not just because I think Grandad will pass the marina on to me when we’re married, but because it truly felt like Jenny is going to fit into our family. For the first time in a long while, I’ll have someone by my side at family dinners.
But on the boat ride home, Jenny was quiet, her usual brightness dimmed. I wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence, but the right words never came.
When we reached the dock, she gave me a quick wave goodbye and headed toward her cabin. By the time I’d fully docked the boat, she was almost to the tree line, her silhouette fading into the shadows. Clearly, something had upset her. I thought about following, but it didn’t feel right. So I let her go.
The memory lingers as I walk down the dock where Henry is fishing. I’m greeted by his voice, rich and welcoming. “Look what the cat dragged in. Come sit down, Trent, and talk for a bit.”
He’s seated on a bench at the edge of the dock, his weathered hands resting on his fishing pole. A thermos of coffee steams beside him, the aroma drifting toward me as I approach.
“I was actually coming to look for you,” I say, taking the seat he pats beside him. The wood is rough beneath my hand as I steady myself.
