Page 2 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

E lle places the veil on my head, fluffing out the gauzy material. “Smile for the camera! Say… Confetti!”

“Confetti?” I hear a click, click, click in rapid procession.

Charlie checks the LCD screen and then re-aims her expensive camera. “Your eyes were closed.”

I tweak the veil’s satin edge. “What do you think Derek will say?”

“If he doesn’t start drooling,” Elle says, “then he doesn’t deserve you.”

I pull my sisters into a hug, my heart swelling with love for these two women, even when they drive me crazy by taking away my lists.

They mean well. We’re not only family but also business partners.

Elle makes the most delicious wedding cakes, and her five-tiered masterpiece is on the dining room table downstairs.

Charlie takes first-rate photos; if they aren’t to the subject’s liking, she’s a whiz at Photoshop.

I am a wedding and event planner. Organization is my superpower.

Together, we form a trifecta of wedding engineering.

Bailey circles us, his tongue hanging out and his tail thwapping us.

“Yoo-hoo!” comes a high-pitched, southern voice.

Elle grabs my arm and whispers, “Did you invite Aunt Barb?”

I shake my head emphatically, making my veil wave about my face.

Charlie sighs in relief and lunges to hold onto Bailey’s collar as he barks a greeting or a warning. It’s hard to tell the difference.

A woman with blonde tresses peeks around the door. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Before we can answer, she barges right in. Bailey woofs continuously.

“Bailey, hush,” Charlie says. But he doesn’t.

“Mari…anne,” I stumble over the woman’s name because we’ve only met twice. “Hello.” I have to raise my voice over all the commotion.

Clearly, she came to upstage the bride. She’s wearing a fuchsia dress zipped and cinched tight in all the right places. Her lipstick, shoes, and tiny handbag match. It’s a fuchsia explosion. Her gaze sweeps over me, assessing every tiny stitch. “That dress is so scrumptious! I could eat you up.”

Elle glances at Charlie, and then they focus on me, silently asking: Who is this?

“Marianne,” I begin the introductions, “these are my sisters, Elle and Charlie. Marianne and her fiancé, Trevor, are getting married next weekend.”

Marianne waggles her ultra-long fingernails, which are also painted fuchsia, and her blinding engagement ring.

Bailey wags his way toward her, sniffing Marianne’s toes. She teeters a step.

“That’s Bailey,” I say.

“Is he in the wedding too?” she asks, unable to hide the crinkle in her nose.

“Derek’s allergic,” I explain.

“Bailey has to stay inside,” Charlie says, clearly unhappy with the arrangement because she takes Bailey with her everywhere. “Is this the wedding you had?—”

“Yes!” I interrupt Charlie before she can say the wrong thing. “Derek and I are in Marianne’s wedding. Won’t that be fun since we’ll be newlyweds?”

Elle and Charlie nod like I’ve lost my mind. They know we had to cut our honeymoon short to return in time. I’m an attendant at her wedding only because Trevor is making a business deal with Derek.

“Trevor and I wanted to get here early,” Marianne says. “In case you needed help with anything. He’s checking on Derek now.”

“We have everything under control,” Elle says.

Charlie’s look says, How can we get rid of her? Then she glances at Bailey, and I suspect she’s about to tell the big shaggy beast to ‘sic ‘em!’

“You could check on Delia,” I offer. “Make sure she’s ready for the reception.”

“I’d be happy to!” But Marianne doesn’t move. “I know how difficult the help can be.”

A knock on the door precedes the doorknob twisting as Dad’s voice squeezes through the crack. “Everyone decent?”

Bailey barks and rushes forward.

“Come on in!” I call, grateful for the interruption. “It’s my Dad.”

“I’ll just slip out.” Marianne touches my arm. “I’ll go check on… Debbie?”

“Yeah, Debbie,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes.

Marianne offers her hand to my dad. “Hi, Mr. Peterson, I’m Marianne McGovern, soon-to-be Wexler. Congratulations, sir. You must be so proud today.”

“I am.” Dad looks confused, which is not far from his usual look. “Thank you.”

Bailey moves between them, wagging his tail at his grandpa, who pats him warmly.

Elle shuts the door firmly behind all that fuchsia. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

Then Charlie steps out of the way to reveal the bride… me. “Ta-da!”

My dad places a hand over his heart. Big, fat tears well in his eyes. “My goodness. You look lovely.” His gaze drifts to each of his daughters, dressed in their bridesmaid finery. “How did I get so blessed? Your mother would be so proud.”

I offer a watery smile. “You’re looking spiffy in that tux.”

And he does. I forget sometimes that he’s in his early sixties, healthy and strong, with thick, wavy hair that turned silver long ago and an eye-crinkling smile. To me, he’s simply my dad and my lifeline.

He hugs me carefully as if my dress might wrinkle and kisses my cheek. Elle and Charlie close ranks to complete the family circle.

When he pulls back, unabashed tears glisten in his eyes. “Your mother and I talked about this day… Oh dear.” He pats his pockets. “Where did I put…?”

“Need a hankie?” Charlie asks.

Elle indicates the top of his head. “Your glasses, Dad.”

“Right, okay.” From inside his jacket, he pulls a pale pink envelope.

My breath snags on the sorrow that lurks around my heart.

“Another letter?” I whisper. I can’t believe it.

I hadn’t allowed myself to hope for another letter from my mother. Before she passed away, our mother wrote letters to each of us for our birthdays, first dates, graduations, and, apparently, for our wedding days.

Only the corners are slightly bent on the mostly pristine envelope. Across the front, my mother’s delicate handwriting scrawls: To my darling girls .

Dad offers it to me, and I hold it reverently, as if it might shatter into a million sparks of light and then disappear. Elle and Charlie nudge each other to get close and read it, too.

“It’s for all of us,” Elle declares, her voice rising with eagerness.

Dad adds, "It’s been a few years since your last one."

Charlie steps back as if she cannot handle this new revelation. Bailey approaches her, and she strokes his head.

“When your mother was ill,” Dad says, “we imagined what each of you would be like when you grew up and stepped out into the world. It brought her comfort in those final days. She made me promise to give this letter to the first one of you to tie the knot.”

“Wait!” Ellie protests. “I’m not allowed to read it?”

“Not yet,” Dad confirms.

Charlie aims her camera at the envelope and clicks away.

“But that’s not fair!” Elle protests with a pout. “You could have told us there was another letter.”

“Then you might have raced for the altar before you were ready,” Dad says. “Or are you ready to marry someone you haven’t told me about?”

“No.” Elle jerks her chin.

Charlie shakes her head and focuses on her lens.

Elle waves a hand like she couldn’t care less. “Fine. Go ahead.”

“When it’s your turn,” Dad tries to appease, “you’ll read it. Until then…” He tilts his head toward the doorway.

“We can take a hint.” Charlie caps her lens.

Elle scoops up my iPad. “Don’t take too long. We have a schedule to keep.”

“We’ll check on Debbie’s progress,” Charlie says, which makes me smile.

Dad grins. “Trust the plan.”

Elle skirts out the door, and Charlie motions for Bailey, who escorts them. Then she closes the door.

Holding the envelope with anticipation and dread, I walk toward the arched window.

This could be the last letter, and if so, it’s a moment to savor and cherish.

The paper is high quality, thick and weighty, imbued with importance and expectation.

The linen weave crisscrosses the envelope like tiny etchings, and I trace a curlicue in Momma’s handwriting.

She did everything with such care and love.

A band tightens around my chest. Oh, how I miss her.

A whiff of something catches my attention, and I pull the envelope close. A rancid scent assaults me. Immediately, I push it away.

“Sorry,” Dad says. “I kept it in my tackle box. Figured you wouldn’t look there.”

“You’re right about that.” I open the envelope and tease out the letter. As I unfold it, the paper feels stiff with age. When I begin reading, I can hear my mother’s gentle voice.

My dearest, darling girls,

Life doesn’t always follow the plans we make.

It grieves me not to see you grow into womanhood.

I dreamed of spa parties, manis and pedis, searching for prom dresses, making wedding plans…

and eventually planning baby showers. I imagined your first dances, graduations, and, hardest of all, your wedding days… .

Dad comes to stand beside me, and I tuck my hand into his as I have through so many monumental moments in my life. I continue to read, and my vision blurs.

Your father and I wanted to show you girls how beautiful a marriage can be, but Dad had to do that all by himself. I know without a doubt that he has been faithful to the promises we made, the plans we envisioned, and the dreams we shared.

Momma’s words float around the room like tiny effervescent bubbles as she writes of love, joy, forever, and always.

When I finish reading, my vision shrinks to a pinpoint, and everything becomes dark and still. My lungs compress, and I struggle to draw a breath.

I hand the letter to Dad and move around the room, pacing from door to window, restless with pent-up emotions that can’t find an escape valve. Blinking hard, I resist the tears stinging my eyes. Don’t cry now.

Grief eclipses the happiness of my wedding day. I’m seven years old again, weighted with sorrow. It sloshes around inside me like a torrent with no outlet.

I remember that long-ago morning, my legs dangling from a tire swing in the backyard, my tennis shoes scuffing the dirt as I turned and turned until my toes strained and the ropes above me, looping over the tree branch, twisted and tightened.

Then I lifted my feet, and the tire swung, swirling around in reverse.

The backyard zoomed around me—the screen door, Daddy’s grill, Momma’s garden, the plants withered and dried in the heat of August, blurring past in a golden vortex.

I shut my eyes tight. The tire zipped and zagged, lurching and swaying. My stomach gurgled.

As the tire settled, I breathed again, opened my eyes, and looked around. Nothing had changed. The sun still shone high above in the pale blue sky. The grass had patches of brown. And Momma was still gone. It was too much for me to understand.

Stretching my legs out, I tiptoed around in a circle again, the ropes overhead twisting until the tension became too great. Then came the blessed release with the spinning, the turning, the wind against my face.

I feel that now.

I couldn’t understand the black hole that swallowed my family that day. But I’ve come to… if not understand it, at least to recognize the vastness of her absence.

“You okay, Sugarbug?” Dad approaches. “Maybe I was wrong to give you this today.”

I lean my head against his shoulder, the groove where my cheek has come to rest so many times over the years. He is my rock, and I steady. “I’m glad you gave it to me.”

His arm comes around me, and we gain strength from each other. This can’t be easy on him either. He misses her, too.

He hands me the letter again. As I place my hand over her precise handwriting, my heart begins to absorb Momma’s words one by one, accepting them, welcoming her advice, wisdom, and courage.

Gently, I refold the paper and tuck it inside the envelope as I fold Momma’s words into my heart. Something prevents the letter from sliding effortlessly inside the opening. I peer inside and remove a pristine teabag.

“Why is this in here?”

Dad looks as surprised as I am. “I don’t know. Your mother did love her tea.”

“Like Charlie,” I say.

He opens his arms wide, and I step into his embrace.

We lean against each other. I’m sure the years since her death have been difficult for him as he raised three little girls all on his own.

But he never complained. He never acted like we were a burden.

Even during the past year, he’s been a peach, listening to wedding plans ad nauseum , nodding, agreeing, and helping pay for things that, until this moment, seemed so important to me.

My mind spins in circles like that old tire swing until it finally sways to a stop on the answer I cannot avoid.

Then, as suddenly as the anxiety appeared, I now feel resolute.

I plant my feet as I once did in that patch of dirt beneath the swing and make my decision.

As hard as it seems, it is also the easiest option imaginable.

I am not plagued by doubts. I don’t have the urge to create a list of alternatives. It is simply the only possibility.

I look at my father, the man who has always been there for me in the middle of the night when I had nightmares, on rainy afternoons with popcorn and movies, after less-than-perfect dates, or when a certain boy didn’t call, or even after a difficult school exam.

He was and is calm in whatever storm I find myself in.

He’s my anchor, a steady arm, a solid shoulder. And I need him now more than ever.

“Dad, there’s something I have to do.”

He peers closely, dabs a finger on my cheek, and shows me an eyelash quivering at the tip of his finger. His experience with feminine matters has taught him about overwhelming emotions, and he’s learned to distract. This is his usual ploy. “Make a wish.”

“It’s too late for wishing, Dad.” I draw a fortifying breath and break the news. “I have to cancel the wedding.”