Page 16 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)
Libby
H iding in Sophie’s bedroom, I shove my limbs into dry, clean clothes and feel much more comfortable, completely covered up. Hopefully, Luke is dressed by now. I try to shake off the awkward embarrassment.
I don’t know what to do with my confusion.
Sitting on the bed, I do what I've always done when I feel lost or perplexed—I open my iPad and look over my beloved lists, which ground me, calm me, and set me on the right path.
Except for the list of ‘things to do on a honeymoon,’ which is passé at this point, so I hit delete.
Deciding I’m no longer comfortable with this game of flirting with Luke, I tamp down my awareness… attraction… or whatever you want to call it. I start a new list of safe topics to discuss when I see Luke.
Start with the weather—always a good neutral topic. It’s cold. Or hot. Depending on whichever it is. But, no. It’s not hot. Definitely not hot. Look at those clouds!
Jump to climate change. Yes, good. The ice caps are melting. That’s not so good.
Maybe… The economic summit? Or traffic? But there is no traffic in Storybrook. Definitely return to the economic summit.
With a few options in mind, I unpack my suitcase, trying not to think of facing Luke again. I’ll pretend nothing happened. I saw nothing. He saw nothing. We’re… good.
Inside my suitcase, I discover a Polaroid of my mother with Charlie, Elle, and me. Longing wells up inside me, an ache to be with my mother again. But there is also a yearning for simpler times, when my future seemed promising.
My cell phone buzzes, and I open the video call. “What are you two doing?”
“Calling you!” Elle answers, sitting in her sunny kitchen in Atlanta.
Charlie leans into the frame. “You have your phone finally.”
“Dad brought it with my suitcase. I also have my lists. And clothes! I’ve been wearing Luke’s sister’s.”
“Did they fit?” Charlie asks.
But Elle shakes her head and rolls her eyes. She takes over the conversation with, “When is Dad coming to Atlanta?”
“He’s not there yet? Maybe he had more to do at the B&B.”
Charlie shakes her head. “We cleaned everything out.”
“Maybe,” Elle says, “he needed some time. You know how he handles drama.”
Knowing Dad, I add, “He never does anything for himself. Hey, look what I found.” I hold up the Polaroid. “Dad must have slipped it into my suitcase.”
Leaning close to the screen, they ooh and ahh.
“Look at us!” Elle exclaims. “We’re so little and cute!”
“The framing is crooked,” Charlie states. “Maybe I could scan it and fix it in Photoshop."
“It’s perfect the way it is,” Elle declares.
“If only I’d taken the picture,” Charlie continues.
“You were too young,” Elle chides. “Besides, then you wouldn’t have been in it!”
“I wonder where it was taken,” I muse aloud.
“Ask Dad. He probably remembers,” Charlie says, sipping from a cup of tea. “He probably took it.”
“Or Aunt Barb,” Elle says.
We go silent for a moment.
Charlie clears her throat and moves past the awkwardness. “Mom always insisted we take pictures and more pictures. And don’t forget the clunky video camera!”
All the picture-taking to make memories, along with Charlie’s aversion to it, probably inspired her to step behind the camera and become a photographer. “Well,” I say, “I’m glad Momma wanted all those pictures. It’s all we have of her now.”
“That and the letter,” Elle says. I detect the not-so-subtle hint in her tone.
Charlie nudges her out of frame. “So, how are you doing, Lib?”
“I’m okay. Staying with Luke?—”
Elle whoops as she pops into the picture. “Go, Lib!”
“With his parents,” I add. “I just got out of a relationship. I’m not looking for another.” That last statement is decisive. And I mean it. I do. “Although,” I say, “we had an… incident.”
“Ooh,” Elle coos. “Tell, tell.”
“It was nothing. Really.” But I feel my cheeks burning with the memory.
“Have you spoken with Derek?” Elle asks.
“Not since…” I struggle to find the right words.
“Since you dumped him?” Charlie supplies.
“It wasn’t like that,” I protest. “It sounds so terrible to say it that way. Am I terrible?”
“No!” Elle protests as Charlie counters with, “Yes!”
“Really?” I ask, partially devastated.
“Of course not,” Charlie says, elbowing Elle. “You did what you had to do. Better before the wedding than after. How long are you staying with Luke?”
“His parents,” Elle corrects.
“Thank you,” I say. “Only through Saturday. I’m helping with a wedding.”
“Of course, you are.” Elle grins and points to Charlie. “If you need a photographer…”
“Or,” Charlie chimes in, tilting her head toward Elle, “a phenomenal baker…”
“I’m not sure what the bride has booked yet. But I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.
“By the way, I hate to ask, but I have to. What happened to that amazing cake and all the flowers?”
“We took them to Oakwood,” Elle answers.
My hand covers my heart. Oakwood is the assisted living facility where my grandparents lived. We still visit the residents every Christmas.
“They were ecstatic,” Charlie adds. “Mr. Stemfield handed flowers to all the ladies.”
Elle grins. “He was trying to get some. If you know what I mean!”
Charlie and I groan.
“It was Delia’s idea,” Elle explains. “And Charlie is going to submit the photos as an article to Bride Magazine, of course.” She looks adoringly at her sister.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie says, “I changed the bride’s name to protect the guilty.”
“Ha, ha,” I say, but I am secretly relieved.