Page 40 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

A driving rock-and-roll beat bursts from gigantic speakers and pulses through Piedmont Park, a historic park in Atlanta. I can’t make out the distorted words from the seventies-style rock band playing in the pavilion, but the crowd claps along and dances as if it's Woodstock.

The smell of grease permeates the air. Luke and I walk past jump houses and vendors offering everything from cheesesteaks and fried pickles to curly fries and deep-fried butter. Yes, that is a thing, but it’s not my thing. Still, someone must love it.

While we get our bearings, Luke and I gobble down a couple of hot dogs.

My phone buzzes, and I glance down. Derek calling. Again. I shove my phone deeper into the bottom of my purse and ignore the persistent vibration. “Derek would never take a day off,” I say. “He didn’t even want to take off any time for our honeymoon.”

“His mistake,” Luke says.

“Would you choose Ohio for your honeymoon?”

He chews thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m sure even Ohio could be romantic with the right person.”

Hmm. Okay… I decide to push the conversation further.

“You were engaged before, and you’ve been out with Benelope?—”

“Bethany.”

“But will you ever consider something serious again?” Maybe it’s the caffeine that makes me jittery and keeps me babbling. “I’m wondering about that myself. If I’ll ever be ready. If I’ll ever allow myself to take a risk.”

“You can’t rush romance,” he says. “It happens or it doesn’t.”

What does that mean? I step back and reassess.

Luke turns slowly in a circle, scanning the crowds, stage, and vendors. He gestures toward a nearby row of vendors, and we stroll in that direction.

My senses are overloaded, like Charlie tripping on caffeine. Maybe that’s why I can’t let this go. “But how do you know?” I argue. “Relationships take work. They don’t just happen.”

“Are you saying your lists will save a relationship?” he asks.

“My lists… and micromanaging helped us get through the wedding today.”

Someone bumps into Luke, and then another person cuts between us. Luke pulls me toward him as the crowd jostles us, and I find myself nestled snugly against his chest, his arm and shoulder shielding me from the throng.

“Someone opened the floodgates,” he whispers in my ear, sending a tingling sensation down my spine.

We make our way toward vendors selling arts and crafts. One vendor offers handmade bandanas for dogs.

Luke holds out a bandana made of fabric that resembles a spring bouquet. “For Bailey?”

“Thoughtful, but too girly.”

He searches for another bandana. “Your lists can be useful, but they also have their limits. You don’t want a husband or boyfriend to bring you flowers because it’s written on a list or calendar, do you?

Or do you want him to think of you and, on his way home, pick up flowers because he misses you and loves you? ”

He gets a point for that one.

I sigh. “Derek bought me flowers on our anniversary and my birthday because his secretary reminded him. Or maybe she ordered them. I don’t know.”

“Not everyone has a secretary,” Luke says. “But then again, I’m not an expert on romance and relationships.”

“Did your fiancée have lofty expectations that you couldn’t meet?”

Luke continues to search through the assortment of bandanas. “Not exactly.”

Maybe I went too far. “I’m sorry, Luke. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He shows me a bandana that says, ‘Take a hike.’

“Trying to tell me something?” I ask with a smile.

“Never.” He leans against the display table and faces me. “I was more like Derek. Not realizing how I wasn’t meeting her expectations.”

“Maybe her expectations were unrealistic,” I suggest.

He sighs, his blue eyes turning stormy. “When my sister died, I didn’t take it well. I was angry and emotional. Understandable, I guess. It took me a long time to move through the grief. I was moody and depressed.”

I’m nodding, connecting on many levels.

“At the same time,” he says, “my fiancée was planning our wedding. It felt like we were on two different planets. She wanted to talk about colors and flowers, venues and cake flavors. And… I didn’t. I tested her patience. She interpreted my indifference as a sign that I didn’t care.”

“Oh, Luke…” I can’t imagine him in such a dark place. He’s usually cheerful and steady. Yet, I’ve been in a dark place and know how hard it is to climb out of that deep well.

“I didn’t say that to get your sympathy. As I said, I’m a pretty simple guy. Usually, I’m grateful for every day.” Then his eyes brighten. He reaches past me to a bright red bandana with a bulldog. “Go Dawgs.”

I smile. “I always wanted a dog. Dad had his hands full raising three girls. A few months ago, Derek and I considered getting a puppy, but he’s allergic.”

Luke sharpens his gaze. “No, he’s not.”

“What?” At the sound of my shriek, several people turn and look at us.

“My folks used to have a dog. Chester was this big, goofy rescue. No idea what breed. Part elephant, Mom used to joke, because of the amount of food he ate. But he was the gentlest dog you’d ever want to meet.

When Derek first came to visit my folks, I told him Chester’s name was Cujo, because he had a violent past.”

“Cujo?” I ask. “As in Stephen King’s novel?"

Luke suppresses a laugh. “You should have seen Derek jump and squirm when Chester sniffed around him. Derek was petrified the whole weekend until Mom figured out what I’d done and told Derek Chester’s real name.

Eventually, Derek warmed up to Chester. Aside from that, Derek had no problem being around him. ”

“You’re saying Derek lied to me?”

“Look at it this way—now you can get a puppy.”

I move toward a vendor selling handmade Taylor Swift bracelets. “My job demands a lot of time away from home. So I’ll probably have to wait longer for a dog.”

“Who’s your boss?” Luke asks as he moves me past the tweens examining the beaded bracelets.

“Luke,” I argue, “not all of us can afford to close our doors for a weekend.”

“Remember,” he says, “you decide your hours and how many events you schedule.”

“Or my rent does.” But that’s only partially true. “I’ve always felt desperate to secure the next gig. But you’re right. I’m in charge of my choices.”

“Exactly!” He focuses on another vendor. “Look over here.”

We wander from vendor to vendor, admiring ‘art’ that rivals the bedpan planters.

“This seems impossible,” I finally say, looking at the long row of vendors. “How will we ever find one that might have sold a teabag twenty-something years ago?”

“Try to think of it more as an expedition,” Luke suggests. “Maybe you’ll jar loose some faded memory. But look here.”

He leads me toward a shady tent with a banner: Turn Back Thyme .

Dried herbs are bundled and tied with twine.

The potent scents mingle in harmony. Sage, mint, and oregano bunches hang from metal poles.

Beeswax candles and soaps of all shapes and sizes line the shelves.

Jars of loose-leaf teas with fruit tinctures catch my eye.

The vendor, a young woman, lights a white sage bundle and places it in a pottery bowl, and a ribbon of smoke curls upward. When she sees us, she asks, “Can I help you?”

“Did you package these teas yourself?” I ask.

“My granny has been doing this for a long time. I’m Sara.”

“Hey, Sara. I’m Libby, and this is Luke.”

Sara smiles broadly. She has bright yellow hair tied in old-fashioned pigtails and wears faded overalls. “Granny grows her own herbs and dries them, but I make the candles, soaps, and run the business.”

“Do you always come to the Dogwood Festival?” Luke asks.

“Every year since before I was born. We go to other festivals too. Here’s our card. You can order online.” She hands me a card.

I dig into my purse for the teabag. “Do you think your grandmother could have packaged this one?” I hold it out. “Twenty plus years ago?”

Sara leans over the display case, studying the teabag and its label.

“Maybe, but… I don’t think so. Granny always wrote the labels by hand. What she called her personal touch.”

“Right. Well, thank you. I appreciate the information.”

“You know,” Sara adds, “Granny used to sell empty teabags and labels for customers to package their own homegrown herbs. We haven’t done that in years, but…”

“Maybe your mother packaged this one,” Luke suggests.

“Momma did grow peppermint,” I say. “But what did she mean by leaving me this?”

“Maybe it’s the type of tea that holds the meaning. Can I?” Sara asks.

I hand her the teabag, and she sniffs.

“Fish,” I say apologetically. “My father kept it in his tackle box.”

“Sounds like something my Gramps would do.” She sniffs again. “Peppermint… chamomile… and echinacea…”

“Echinacea?” Luke repeats.

“You know, coneflowers.” She points to dried flowers hanging upside down over her head. “They have great healing properties.”

“What about peppermint?” I ask.

“Aids in digestion. And freshens the breath. Just in case.” She winks.

My gaze meets Luke’s, bringing back the memory of our kiss.

He clears his throat. “And, uh, chamomile?”

“Lowers blood sugar, reduces inflammation, and some say it even fights cancer cells.” Sara hands me the teabag. “I wish I could have helped more.”

“You helped more than you know.” I hand her a candle for Elle and a jar of tea leaves for Charlie, and she rings up my purchase.

After I pay, Luke and I head off, giving Sara a ‘see you later’ and ‘thanks so much’.

Luke watches me for a moment before asking, “You okay?”

“I wish this mystery were easier to solve. Why didn’t my mother explain the teabag in her letter? Was she encouraging me to be healthy? Was it an accident to place it with the letter?”

“It’s good for blood pressure,” he repeats what Sara said. “That’s needed for a good, strong marriage.”

He’s teasing, and I tap his shoulder lightly with the back of my hand. Yet, his good humor lifts me out of my somber mood.

“Actually,” I say, a sudden thought coming to me, “maybe I should call my Aunt Barb. My mom’s older sister. Maybe she knows something.”

Luke guides me toward another vendor. “Let’s think it over while we eat a funnel cake.”

Soon we find ourselves standing beneath the shade of a dogwood tree, the beautiful white flowers blooming overhead as we tear off pieces of sugary frybread.

Once we’re done, Luke tosses the paper plate into a nearby trash can.

When he comes back, he jostles a low-hanging branch, showering me with dogwood petals and making me laugh.

He gently plucks a white petal from my hair. For a moment, we’re just a breath apart. His gaze meets mine and then dips toward my lips.

Just when I believe he’s going to kiss me, he takes a step away and holds a delicate petal between us. “Make a wish.”

I’m reminded of my dad’s trick of blowing on an eyelash to distract me from heartbreak. I close my eyes and wish I knew what my mother was trying to tell me. I also secretly wish that my feelings for Luke would be reciprocated.

Then I open my eyes. Luke watches me intently. I blow on the petal, and Luke releases it into the spring air, which feels full of promise.

If only wishes could come true so easily.