Page 34 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

I t’s an all-hands-on-deck emergency.

We gather at Luke’s parents’ house. It takes all of us: Elle, Charlie, Luke, Roxie, Stacy, and Wade, plus Bailey, of course.

We make several trips to Elle’s VW Beetle to unload supplies for the wedding cake and to create baby quiches, muffins, and a side order of a million scones.

Okay, not quite that many, but it feels impossible.

We pile everything, and I mean everything, onto the kitchen table.

Wade surveys the pounds of flour, sugar, and butter, along with various sizes of cake pans. “How big is this cake going to be?”

Stacy pats him on the arm. “Let’s get pizzas.”

Elle whirls around, organizing supplies, from an industrial-sized mixer to tiny measuring spoons. She brought everything she might need and then some.

“You don’t mind Bailey being here, do you?” Charlie asks.

“Not at all.” Stacy pats Bailey’s side. “He’s beautiful and welcome. It’s been too long since we had a dog.”

Elle ties the chef’s apron she bought during a stint in Paris and surveys the small, medium, and large spatulas, along with every cake-decorating tool imaginable. “What time do we need to be finished?”

“Six in the morning,” Roxie tells her.

“A dawn wedding,” Luke adds.

Wade laughs. “Like an execution.”

Stacy smacks his shoulder and pushes him out the door.

My usually gregarious sister is completely serious as she calculates the hours and minutes. “But exactly what time does the wedding start?”

I check my time chart. “Six-twenty-two. Sunrise.”

She makes a few mental calculations.

“Can we do it?” Luke asks.

I appreciate his use of the word ‘we.’ We’re all in this together.

“It’ll be close,” Elle answers. “We can’t afford any delays.”

She means no mistakes—no forgetting to turn on the oven, no burned cake layers, and no omission of an essential ingredient.

“All right then. Let’s get baking.” Elle claps her hands like Ralph Fiennes, the chef in that scary movie, and I see a whole new side of my sister, rather than the frivolous, carefree little girl I’ve always bossed around.

I open a new page on my iPad. “Shall we make a list?”

Elle taps her temple and winks. She sets her watch. “I want the cake finished by five, which means it’s constructed over at the venue. Then we can focus on baking the quiches and such, using the coffee shop’s oven.”

“I’ll get working on scones,” Roxie says.

Elle nods in agreement. “All right, team. On your mark, get set… Start the ovens.”

“That’s our cue.” Luke gestures toward the double oven. We make it beep multiple times before it begins to preheat.

“We need some tunes.” Charlie perches at the kitchen table, out of the way. Bailey curls up beside her, his head resting on his paws. She connects her phone, and some strange psychedelic sounds flow through the portable speaker.

Roxie, Luke, and I pause to stare at Charlie.

“What?” she asks. “We need to combat all the frenetic energy in here.”

“And go insane?” Elle asks, continuing to move three times faster than the music’s beat. If you can call that music.

“I’ll take over as DJ,” Luke volunteers. Charlie reluctantly hands her phone to him. Soon, he’s got a driving beat that matches Elle’s rhythm.

Luke and I steer clear of Elle and Roxie while fetching eggs and milk when they call for them.

Then we stay busy washing and drying measuring cups and mixing bowls.

Do you know how many dishes and bowls it takes to make a wedding cake?

That’s not meant as a joke, like: how many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb? Trust me, it takes a lot.

My phone rings, and I check to see if it’s our bride. But it’s Derek. I don’t have time for his drama tonight, so I silence my phone.

“Can’t you reuse this?” I hold up a spoon.

Luke snatches it and washes it like a good soldier.

Our hands meet in the transfer of a bowl. “Sorry,” we mutter and keep moving quickly and efficiently.

But Elle has us all beat. She’s a whirling dervish, stirring, scraping, and pouring. I marvel at her. I’ve only ever seen her creations, never ‘the making of,’ and it’s a sight to behold.

Luke grabs the broom from the pantry and sweeps flour dribbled on the brick floor, which Bailey licks up. “Your sister is an artist.”

“Is that what you call it?” I swipe a blob of vanilla off the counter and then a splash of milk.

After the cake layers are queued for alternating shifts inside the oven—three layers each for four tiers—you do the math—we pause to munch on pizza. Elle never even sits but keeps peering into the ovens.

Wade tells her, “A watched pot never boils.”

“She knows what she’s doing,” Roxie says.

“If the cakes burn,” Elle says, “we’ll have to start over and push the wedding to sunset.”

“Carry on,” I say.

After dumping her paper plate in the trash, Elle washes her hands for the fiftieth time.

Bailey sits politely, looking to each of us for bites of crust, which we happily feed him.

“Time for round two,” Elle declares as the clock speeds past ten o’clock.

The rest of us begin to slow down, feeling the effects of the race we’re in. Elle pulls rounds out of the oven, testing each layer to ensure they are done in the middle. Soon, cake sections cool in every conceivable place around the kitchen.

I’m in charge of cooking bacon. Luke chops leeks, mushrooms, and spinach for the baby quiches. Roxie prepares frosting for the scones. Charlie slices strawberries, cantaloupe, and pineapples for the fruit trays. Bailey sprawls across the floor, his paws twitching in his sleep, and we step over him.

Wade loiters near me and the sizzling bacon. “Smells good.”

“Come on, you,” Stacy drags him away. “It’s past your bedtime.”

Luke sends Roxie home, assuring her that we will take good care of the muffins and scones.

“You’re doing this because you think I’m old,” Roxie complains.

“Not at all,” Luke reassures her. “We’re all going to be exhausted and need someone to think clearly during the wedding. And that’s you.”

She grunts in disapproval but hugs us all before heading home.

It’s nearing midnight as Luke, Charlie, and I load the covered fruit trays into the bed of his truck.

“We shall return,” I assure my sisters.

Charlie offers me a lackluster salute. “I’ll stay here and help Elle.”

Elle doesn’t look up from leveling cake layers with the precision of an architect. “You just want samples of cake.”

“If you insist!” Charlie snatches a sliver that Elle shaved off.

“Hey!” Elle admonishes.