Page 32 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

I tiptoe through the back door, easing into the dark kitchen. I don’t want to wake Stacy or Wade. Nor do I want to see them and make small talk. I only want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and try to forget about tonight. And Luke.

I round the corner into the hallway of Sophie’s bedroom when Stacy exits the laundry room and nearly collides with me.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I didn’t know you were home.”

Home. It sounds so lovely, with a permanence that stirs a longing within me.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say. “I thought you’d already gone to bed.”

“Wade’s snoring away, but I have a few chores. Is Luke still here?”

I shake my head. “He left already.”

She looks at me closely. “You okay?”

“Sure. Yes. Just tired.” I feign a yawn.

“I was starting a load of laundry. It’s not full if you need to throw anything in.”

“Thanks, but I have enough clothes to get me through Saturday. And Andrea’s wedding. Then I’ll be leaving to go home. You’ve been so kind to let me stay this long.”

“It’s been a pleasure to have you,” she says. “Would you like a cup of tea? I find a nice herbal tea helps me release all the excitement of the day and sleep better.”

I’ll try anything because sleep this week has been elusive. “That sounds lovely.”

Stacy putters around, filling the kettle with water and placing it on the stove to boil.

“I love this time of night,” she says in a soft voice that invites confidences.

“When my children were little, I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Now it’s this way during the day too.

I miss those busy days, the hustle and bustle with all the kids’ activities, and the quiet nights.

Now the silence is a reminder that those years are gone.

You probably don’t know what I’m blathering on about. ”

She brings two pretty teacups to the table and joins me.

“How was your party?” I ask.

“Lovely. Just an old group of friends. We get together once a month, rotating houses. We shoot the breeze and overeat.”

“Sounds nice. To have friends to grow old with. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You’re not old or anything.”

Stacy reaches across the table to clasp my hand.

“It’s all right. I’m not a spring chicken anymore.

And I’m okay with that.” She smiles. “I heard someone say every age has advantages and disadvantages. The trick is to accept the age I’m in and be grateful.

But you’re right, it is nice to have friends we’ve known since, oh goodness, elementary school.

We all grew up right here in Storybrook, except for Bill and Lou.

They retired a few years ago and moved here from Connecticut. We adopted them into our group.”

She sets out a sugar bowl and a cream pitcher. “How did dinner with Luke go?”

“I didn’t burn it,” I say, sitting at the table. “So, I guess it went okay.”

She smiles with understanding in her gentle gaze. “Luke would have eaten it anyway. He’s always been polite that way. And with a hollow leg. He could eat more than a horse.”

“He did have two helpings,” I say. “Plus, he cleaned up the kitchen. You must’ve raised him right.”

“Oh, I tried. We had our struggles as all families do.” Stacy fetches a basket with teabags and sets it before me. “Pick whatever you like.”

I sift through the peppermint, chai, and Lady Jane Grey.

“Staying here has felt like being at home. Thank you for that. For making me feel welcome. I’m sure it wasn’t always comfortable for you, since you know Derek so well.

” I finally decide on butter mint. “Your home is charming. I hope your daughter doesn’t mind me staying in her room. ”

Stacy selects lemon and ginger.

“Are these Sophie’s paintings throughout the house? Or are they yours?”

“Sophie’s the artist. Always was. Even when she was little. Those paintings make my heart smile.”

“They’re vibrant with all the colors and movement. They remind me of Van Gogh.”

Stacy unwraps her teabag and sets it in her cup. "Don’t they?"

“Maybe she gets her artistic talent from you. Cindy said you’re a quilter.”

Stacy’s forehead pinches. “I haven’t done much sewing in a while.”

“Does Sophie get home much?” I ask.

She takes a slow breath and then gently says, “Sophie passed a few years ago.”

There’s a quiet, heart-wrenching moment as reality pushes disbelief aside. Having lived in her room and worn her clothes, I feel I know her and experience the loss like a sharp cut.

“Oh, Stacy. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I-I…” I don’t know what to say.

“No reason you should have. We talk about Sophie, but none of us likes to discuss her absence."

My mind flips through conversations with Luke, who spoke about losing someone he loved, but he never mentioned it was his sister. I assumed he was referring to his ex-fiancée. And Derek. If this was his second family, why hadn’t he ever mentioned Sophie?

The tea kettle whistles, breaking the awkward moment, and Stacy heads to the stove. When she comes back, she pours hot water over the teabags.

“Now,” she says, “we’ll let them steep a minute.

” Sitting down again, she tugs the string, moving the teabag about the cup.

“Sophie married almost four years ago. Cindy made her dress. That woman can create magic with a needle and a spool of thread. Anyway, Sophie and Hayden made such a lovely couple, picture-perfect, like they were models. He’s from Alabama, and they moved to Birmingham after the wedding. We saw them quite a bit, though.

“Sophie was eager to start a family, and she got pregnant soon after the wedding. It was an ectopic pregnancy.” At her questioning look, I nod, letting her know I understand what that means. “By the time the doctors figured it out, it was too late for my girl.”

“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, unsure of what else to say.

Stacy’s features reveal no hint of angst, anguish, or grief. “We all feel that way, of course. Nothing much to do but go on as best we can.”

Even though it’s been years since I lost my mother, I still struggle with the immense loss. “How do you manage?”

“I’m still learning, I expect. A work in progress.

Some days are easier than others. When I’m feeling strong, I look at it in the light of eternity.

One day, I’ll see my daughter in heaven, and we’ll be together forever.

So, this sorrow, this heartache I’m feeling now, doesn’t have the last word. It’s not the end.”

“But there are days…”

“Is that why you don’t quilt anymore?”

“Sewing always provided me a moment’s peace. But, now, it gives me too much time to think.”

I nod with understanding. “Maybe you’ll quilt again one day.”

“Maybe.” She lifts the teabag and squeezes it to release all the juicy flavor.

“Most days, I miss Sophie more than I can say. She was not only my daughter but my best friend.” Tears well up in her eyes before a watery smile emerges.

“The last time I spoke with her, she told me an old friend had dropped her a sweet note in the mail. Those memories I treasure like gold.”

Carefully, she removes the teabag and sets it aside. “Sugar? Cream?”

I shake my head and pluck my teabag up and down in the hot water. “I’ve been thinking of my mother lately. I lost her when I was only seven. I remember her telling Charlie and me that we would be big sisters to a baby growing in her belly. We stared at her stomach as if we could see inside.”

Stacy touches my hand, and I clasp hers. “Memories,” she says, “help. When the pain feels overwhelming, I comfort myself that the deeper we love, the greater the grief. I loved Sophie the best I knew how. And that’s all we can ever hope for. To love deep and well.”

I feel pressure building in my chest as a tear slips down my cheek.