Page 4 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

I t’s over. The end. Or is it merely the beginning?

The aftermath of the meeting with Derek feels like a backwash of debris crashing over me. My insides feel sloshy. My head throbs. My knees wobble. And yet, with each step away from Derek and the groom’s cottage, the satin shoes pinch my painted toes as I gain strength and momentum.

So, I keep walking in my froufrou wedding dress, which I am seriously rethinking. Why did I spend so much money on it? Momma’s letter resides in the deep pocket I had the designer place in the poufy skirt.

I walk right past the big house where my father and sisters are unraveling my plans, like cats pawing at a yarn blanket, the threads coming loose into a giant mess. Guests will be arriving shortly to hear the news. Marianne and Trevor are digging, prying, and trying to get the ‘tea.’

I imagine Charlie telling Marianne, “Go ask Debbie.” This makes my lip curl into a half-smile. However, I can’t think about them or all the other things that must be done right now. I certainly don’t want to face any of it.

Turning away from the house, I walk down the runner to the white, gleaming gazebo decorated with ribbons and pale pink peonies.

Pulling Momma’s letter from the deep pocket, I hold it as if it’s a connection straight to heaven and Momma’s hand. If only she were here with me now. What would she say? What would she do? Oh, Momma!

When I was five or six years old, she and I would walk through our backyard garden holding hands.

She’d listen to me chatter about my day at school: who liked whom, who hit whom, who cried, who tattled, and who traded their bologna sandwich for a Twinkie.

Momma would pause to pick a ripe tomato or pluck a daisy to decorate the kitchen table.

Over the years, I often pretended she was walking with me whenever I felt alone and in need of her guidance: down the hallway at school, across campus, and even now.

I imagine her matching me stride for stride as we veer off the carpeted path, my narrow heels pressing into the manicured lawn.

She’s listening to my thoughts about why I can’t marry Derek, why he isn’t the one, why I ever thought he could be, and maybe there isn’t ever ‘the one’ and why that’s okay.

We pause to admire azalea blossoms, their petals fluttering like Easter dresses. We pass the gazebo and enter the sanctuary of the woods.

I hear Momma’s words from her letter spoken in my head:

When I married your father, I knew it would not just be until ‘death do us part,’ but it would be a marriage that would last forever, whether in this world or the next.

There are loves like that. Happy-ever-after isn’t relegated to storybooks or fairy tales.

The great poets wrote of remarkable love because they experienced such love. Love abounds.

How could she write that knowing what she did, that she didn’t have long, that her happy-ever-after would last less than ten years?

My throat tightens as I think about the ripe dreams, full and round with promise and bursting with juicy expectations, when my mother and father eloped.

Only a few years later, life spoiled those dreams with her diagnosis.

She would never see Elle, Charlie, or me grow up.

She would never celebrate a silver, much less a golden, wedding anniversary with Dad.

She would never rock on her front porch and hear grandchildren’s laughter.

I press my fingers into the corners of my eyes and banish all tears.

When Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote ‘ How Do I Love Thee? ’ she knew a great love, a love to last all eternity, not one of convenience or simply companionship. True love for her was an all-consuming passion that eclipsed all other desires.

I didn’t feel that with Derek.

Perhaps my disbelief in happy-ever-after disqualifies me from surrendering to true love.

If there isn’t that kind of ending, then I need a plan, a way to move forward. My footsteps become more determined and decisive as my thoughts fixate not only on a plan, but on the plan.

I start with the basics, the necessities of today that determine tomorrow: returning presents, writing thank-you notes and explanations, and falling back into my regular life.

I have plenty of clients and upcoming events.

I have activities… well, nothing that didn’t involve Derek, but I’ll find some.

I’ll volunteer. I’ll hang out more with my sisters.

I’ll see friends whom I haven’t seen since I became engaged, friends Derek didn’t particularly like.

Or maybe they didn’t like him. Well, now I’ll have time for them.

And I’ll work hard to repay my father for all he spent on the wedding. It can be done. I’ll do it.

I’ll forget about love, romance, and marriage. I’ll make lists of my potential next steps. And I’ll live in the moment. That’s all we have anyway.

A cold slosh of water seeps into my shoe, alerting me that I’ve traipsed right into a creek.

I back out of the cold, trickling water.

Shaking out my shoe, I watch water droplets spray outward.

Leaves stick to the hem of my dress, which now looks gray with dirt.

Mentally, I add ‘take dress to the cleaners’ to my ever-growing list. I lift my skirt and hopscotch across the creek, slipping on rocks. Then I look around and turn back.

Where am I?

Dread slides down my spine. Or maybe it’s the cold water sloshing around in my shoe.

I rush back, trip over a root, and land with a splat!

So much for that manicure, I think, as I examine a broken nail.

Brushing off my palms, I head in a different direction.

Where is the Bookmark B&B? Tall pines block my view.

The sun overhead shines gloriously on this non-wedding day but offers no indication of east or west. Still, the hum of tires tells me I must be near the highway.

That will be my guide.

I climb, more like crawl, up a ravine, scraping my knee and causing a rip in the hem of my gown. My veil catches on a limb, tugging my head backward, and I carefully unhook it, pulling only a couple of threads.

Scrambling the last few feet, I stumble onto the highway’s gravel shoulder and lean over to catch my breath. I recognize the bend in the road and know which direction to head. But is the B&B really where I want to go?

A rumbling noise jolts me. Around the bend, a truck careens and rattles toward me. The driver slams the brakes and skids to a stop.

A window rolls down and music blasts from the crackling speakers. It’s Luke. In his tux. Not that it’s needed anymore. And, I notice, he shaved. It makes his square jaw even more so.

He turns down the radio and peers out at me. “Libby?”

I feel frozen, as if I can’t speak, my mind numb, overwhelmed, and overloaded. He moves the truck forward, pulling off the highway and blocking my path.

“Big wedding up the road. Hear a bride is needed.” He grins as if nothing is wrong, as if I haven’t imploded my whole world. Then, he leans over and opens the passenger door. “Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.”

Ducking my head, I keep walking. I can’t face all those curious glances or sympathetic looks. I plow forward as if I’m charging at a bullfighter.

Luke jumps out of the truck and forces me to stop. “Hey,” he says, “did something happen? What did Derek do?”

I swerve around him, but he blocks my way, arms spread wide as if he might tackle me. He better not.

I dodge the other way, but he’s right in my path.

I glare at him. Bridezilla rising. “Are you going to move?”

“I can’t let you walk along the highway.”

“Why? Am I a wide load in this getup?”

“I don’t want to scrape you off the asphalt if a semi runs you over.”

We engage in a stare-off.

Finally, he gestures toward the open passenger door. “Those shoes won’t take you far.”

That makes the most sense. I can still feel the creek water sloshing with each step. A car zips past and lays on the horn, the noise jarring me. I have no choice. Hefting up the voluminous skirt, I scramble into the truck and tuck the veil around me.