Vancouver County had never looked prettier. And Iva Remington never thought she'd over have that opinion. When she was growing up here, it was a tiny pinprick on the map. Less than a million in population, Vancouver did make the maps despite its miniscule size.
Every map. Too many maps. Because her hometown boasted the longest bridge anywhere and ever since she'd become aware of the world, Iva had lived with busloads of tourists tramping all over her hometown.
While in her teens, Vancouver bored her out of her mind. Not a blasted thing to do. She wasn't allowed to go out. No shopping malls, no movie theatre, and school was the only place she was allowed to go to. Fishing and lobster trapping in the harbor-and the bridge was the sum total of her life in this backwater town.
The bridge. That was the topic of almost every conversation. Because every family was affected by the bridge and the people who came to gawk at it. Iva knew tourists well. She slung fries at them for hours on end all through high school in the Remington Family Fry Truck.
Every year the busses became more packed with tourists-helping save her family's business, despite the annoyance they could be at times.
Still, she'd never been so glad to head to Toronto for her university studies. After several years away, except for Christmas vacations, Iva drove down narrow Main Street in slow motion, peering at each intersection into tiny neighbourhoods of Victorian homes and shops.
The bank, general store, and a bait shop. A few clapboard houses. She marveled at how quaint it all was. Old, but with a certain early 1900s charm. Did that happen with everybody after going away to university? That your stifling home town suddenly turned old-fashioned and charming, as if fairy dust had sprinkled across the countryside to turn it into its own Brigadoon. Backward in time one hundred years. Iva turned another corner and pulled up in front of her childhood home. She shut off the engine, rolled down her window, and sat in the quiet. Birds twittered in the evergreen tree in her parent's front yard while she stifled down a scream of fury that had brought her to this point in her life.
She tried to swallow, but her throat was thick. Dear Lord, she was tired of crying Over Noah Graham. Flipping down the visor to look in the mirror, Iva groaned at the sight of her puffy eyes and dark circles. She'd hardly slept the past forty-eight hours.
Alina's voice came up behind her as Iva shoved open the car door, making her jump.
"Hey, you made it!"
"Home, sweet home," Iva replied, taking in the familiar old street, homes with overgrown shrubbery and pockets of patchy wildflowers.
"I wasn't sure you'd leave TO, but let's make the most of it." Alina grinned and lifted her camera, snapping a picture. Hey, I could start a blog called, Diary of a Jilted Bride. We'll chronicle your Woes and broadcast it to the world."
Iva gave a snort. "You're a piece of work,"
"Hey, a girl's gotta practice if she's going to become North America's most sought after photographer."
There was a pause and then Iva said, "Today, Noah finally started calling to apologize. Begging to reschedule the wedding. As if it's all up to me. As if I'm the only one that cares in this relationship. I have no words. No. Words!"