Page 44 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

I ’m not sure how I ever fell asleep, but after an hour or two of tossing and turning, burying my face in my pillow, I must have slept hard. I wake to a burst of sunshine streaming through my window blinds and slanting across the bed, where I kicked the comforter and sheets to the floor.

I stumble out of bed, tripping over my open suitcase with clothes spilling over the edge. I’m tempted to tidy up, but I feel the urgent call for coffee even more.

Soon, the water boils, and coffee grounds settle at the bottom of my cup. I stir my elixir, but the first sip makes me push it away. It doesn’t compare to Luke’s coffee, which I’ve become addicted to. Not that I’m going to tell him that.

Wandering aimlessly around my apartment, I contemplate putting my clothes away, doing laundry, dusting, and watering. Yet, I feel adrift, undulating away from the dock of my life into the wide-open sea and beyond, with no idea where I’m going, what I’m doing, or why.

Finally, I settle at the kitchen table and pull out Momma’s letter from my purse. I reread her words, searching between the lines for a hint or clue. Her words pull me in, hold me fast, and comfort me with her wisdom. But there’s nothing to explain the teabag.

There’s no doubt that I made the right decision about Derek.

But now what? What am I supposed to do with my life?

What about the list of things I’ve been ticking off, all before I reach the age of thirty?

Momma was thirty when she passed away. She was married and had three children.

What do I have? A mostly empty apartment and instant coffee?

Some things in life don’t happen instantaneously, like marriage and kids.

It takes planning and… time. But who knows how much time any of us have?

The teabag in my palm feels as light as if it could blow away, carrying with it any wisdom Momma might have for me. She was always full of lessons that didn’t feel like book learning.

I remember a rainy afternoon from long ago. Elle and Charlie were napping, and I was bored without my playmates. I tucked Barbie into her pink plastic bed and asked Momma, “What can I do?”

With a secretive smile, she pulled me into the kitchen with yellow-checked wallpaper and white cabinets. She took out an old, crinkly piece of paper from her recipe book, a binder she had decorated with fabric and ribbons. Elle keeps it in her kitchen now since she’s the family baker.

“These cookies,” Momma said, “are from my grandmother’s recipe. And her mother taught her.”

As we gathered flour, sugar, and butter, Momma said, “When my grandmother showed me how to make these, she didn’t even have a recipe written down.

She knew it by heart because she’d made it so often.

It was my grandfather’s favorite dessert.

With chocolate ice cream on the side. She never even measured, just instinctively knew how much.

She helped me measure each ingredient, pouring salt into her palm and transferring it to a teaspoon so I could write it down. ”

Momma let me mix the ingredients, and chunks of butter and sugar plopped onto the counter, making us laugh.

“You had to be strong in her day. Libby,” she said. “The greatest thing we hand down from generation to generation is not our genes or recipes or even antique dishes. It’s the stories we tell about those who came before us and the love that holds us together. No matter what happens, remember that.”

I remember, Momma.

Is that what she meant by the crumbled tea leaves in the flimsy bag?

Still, no matter what happens, I will remember that I am connected to Momma, her mother, and her mother’s mother through all the stories, recipes, and memories.

I feel this now as I hold the teabag. Momma’s words intertwine with what Stacy shared about her grief over the loss of her daughter, those memories treasured like gold. The words “in light of eternity” float through my mind. Love binds us to one another and brings us together for an eternity.

I glance at Dad’s present sitting in my den, and I feel his love surrounding and comforting me, along with all the stories and memories we share.

A memory sneaks up on me. Not long after Momma passed away, Dad was doing his best to get breakfast on the table. His eyes were red-rimmed and smudged with exhaustion. I imagine he hadn’t slept much in weeks, if not months. Still, he scrambled eggs, made toast, and set plates before each of us.

“That’s not right,” I said primly, my seven-year-old nose in the air. “Momma don’t make toast like that.”

He gave me a long look. Charlie began shoveling eggs into her mouth. Elle smashed a piece of toast between her chubby hands and banged it on her booster chair. Finally, Dad asked, “How did she make it?”

“Cimmamen,” I said, jutting my jaw out in defiance.

Dad quietly took the toast off my plate and made cinnamon sugar toast. When he brought it to the table, the toast was swimming in butter and dark globs of cinnamon sugar. “How’s that?”

“You have to cut it!” I cried out.

Dutifully, he retrieved a knife from the dishwasher and cut my toast in half.

“Noooo!” I hollered.

This time, Dad rested a fist on his hip. “What’s wrong now?”

“Not like that! Like…” But I lacked the words to explain, so I crossed my arms in front of my face.

“All right. Hang on.” He made more cinnamon-sugar toast and cut the slices diagonally to create four triangles. “Better?”

I stared down at the toast and burst into tears. It wasn’t the toast. It wasn’t how Dad made it—or didn’t make it. It was that I missed Momma, and I didn’t know how to express my sorrow and anger at the injustice of it all.

Instead of getting angry, Dad wrapped his arms around me and held me close against his big, broad chest. He embraced me while Charlie went off to play and Elle squeezed eggs through her fingers. Finally, I snuffled against his shirt.

“You know what we need?” Dad asked.

“What?” I said, with a stuffy nose.

“Tomorrow, we’ll make pancakes. Would you like that?”

“Booberry or chocolate chip?” I asked.

“Those are good. But I was thinking about something new. Have you ever had unicorn pancakes?”

My eyes grew round.

Sure enough, the next day, I helped Dad mix the pancake batter.

I used blueberries for eyes, chocolate chips for the mane, and an ice cream cone for the horn.

There was also whipped cream for good measure—lots of whipped cream.

From then on, it became our go-to breakfast for birthdays, celebrations, and the occasional heartache.

Looking back now, it wasn’t the last time I threw a tantrum that year as I struggled with the loss of my mom. Dad was having a tough time, too. It would have been easy for him to send us to Aunt Barb, but he didn’t.

Over the years, he transformed my sorrow into laughter as we made unicorn pancakes for breakfast and sloppy joes for dinner.

We played in the park on Saturday mornings.

At night, he tucked us into bed and read picture books until Elle fell asleep.

He’d let me stay up later than Charlie and Elle, sitting on the porch where he introduced me to Charlotte’s Web and The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe .

He even allowed me to teach him how to bake cookies using Momma’s recipe.

With those memories wrapped around me like a warm blanket, I set the teabag on the table and search the pantry for the dry ingredients. I check the fridge for eggs—half a dozen—and butter. I’m in business.

While the cookies bake, I go into my bedroom, hang up clothes, and make my bed. A buzzing noise alerts me. Cautiously, I check my phone. In addition to a dozen or more missed calls from Derek, Elle is calling.

“Hey,” she says when I answer, “are you home?”

“I’m making cookies for breakfast. Wanna come over?”

“Open your door!”

Smiling and still wearing mismatched pajamas, I hurry to the door to greet Elle, Charlie, who holds a bunch of daisies and a bag of fresh bagels, and Bailey, who happily wags his tail.