Page 6 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

L uke helps me out of the truck. My veil and skirt, heavy and cumbersome, trip me, and I fall right into his arms.

Our eyes meet. His blue eyes look startled but not alarmed.

“I gotcha,” he says, setting my feet firmly on the concrete walk.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have any other clothes with me. When I ordered this dress, I didn’t think I’d be on the run in it.”

Another contingency I should have factored into my plans. Next time, if there is a next time, I’m going for track shoes.

“Who’s going to notice?” he asks.

Famous last words.

We walk into Once Upon a Pie, and the bell over our heads announces our arrival as if it were Mendelssohn’s Wedding March .

The place breaks into applause. Clearly, customers must have seen Luke’s decorated truck, his tux, and my dress, and come to their own conclusions.

Diners lean out of booths to catch a look.

Others crane their necks. I consider making a break for it.

But Luke keeps a steadying hand on my elbow. From the corner of my eye, I catch him making a slashing motion with his other hand, and the applause sputters out.

An older waitress bustles toward us, her support hose making a swishing sound with each step. “Welcome, folks,” she says as if we are any ordinary couple arriving mid-Saturday for a weekend of antiquing. “Let me get you a table.”

“In the back?” Luke requests.

“No problem.” She grabs menus and silverware and then leads us through the diner, past booths and tables of gawking customers. I notice a few pursed, disapproving lips, hear whispers of ‘her dress is all dirty’, and a finger or two pointing in our direction.

Luke follows me, gathering the tulle train as I negotiate around a cart of syrup and ketchup-smeared dishes.

The waitress stops at the furthest booth, nestled close to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

Luke looks at me, and I manage, “Diet Coke?”

“Make it two,” he adds.

“Sure thing, hon.” And she’s off.

As I slide into the red vinyl booth, my back to the other patrons, I lay Momma's letter on the table. Luke shoves the rest of my overflowing skirt in with me. I start tugging on my veil, trying to pull it off, but it’s pinned so securely that a tornado couldn’t dislodge it.

“Here,” Luke says, “let me help.” He slides a knee onto the seat and leans over me, meticulously pulling out a cache of bobby pins. I can feel his warm breath on my neck and his broad chest close but not too close. His fingers are nimble and careful as they extricate the veil from atop my head.

“Are they still watching?” I ask, not daring to look at the rest of the dining room.

“Nah. Their pancakes and waffles are more interesting now.” His calm voice reassures me.

He lifts the veil and settles it on the mountain of tulle.

At least from the neck up, I resemble a regular patron now.

Then Luke slides into the bench seat across the table from me.

“What sounds good? Beau makes the best burgers around.”

“Extra cheese?” I ask.

“Extra everything. And amazing fries.”

“What about pie?” I ask, remembering the name of the diner.

“You have to have pie. It’s the law here.”

“Then I think I might like Storybrook.”

He smiles and hands me a menu.

The clink of silverware and burble of conversation fill the diner again, and I begin to relax. My gaze drifts to the window as Luke orders.

“What kind of pies do you have today?” he asks the waitress.

She slides her pencil behind her ear. “There’s lemon meringue, strawberry cream, rhubarb, and chocolate or bust.”

I point to her at the mention of chocolate.

She grins. “That’s my favorite too, hon. And I’m betting you want the lemon.”

Luke nods. “Yes, please.”

We wait in silence. My thoughts ping-pong around, unable to land. Luke doesn’t ask questions or check his phone. Instead, he prepares the table with napkins—lots of napkins—and silverware. These mundane, ordinary actions make the situation feel almost normal.

The waitress arrives with a tray of food. She has kind eyes and a generous smile. She sets down two plates with gigantic burgers, steak fries, and a basket of condiments. “Anything else I can get y’all?”

I shake my head, my dress feeling tighter just looking at all that food.

“That’s all for now, Crystal,” Luke says. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Give a holler if you need something, Luke.”

I dig in like a voracious wolf that hasn’t eaten for weeks. I’m halfway through my burger before I ask, “She knows you?”

“I live here.”

“Right. Of course. I knew that. And that’s why the applause when we entered? They think we’re having a bite after our wedding—” I look at my no longer white dress— “in the swamp?”

He chuckles. “Doesn’t matter what they think.”

“I’m sorry about your truck and, well, everything.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

I remember Derek telling me that Luke isn’t married, but I’m not sure if he has someone significant in his life. “Will your girlfriend or partner or significant other be upset?”

“About what?”

“Driving Bridezilla around. People thinking we’re married.”

“I'm not worried about it.”

Which is not an answer to my question. I try to remember what Derek said about Luke, but my mind was always distracted with wedding details and, of course, all my lists.

I’m curious now about Luke. For Elle and Charlie’s sake, of course.

Earlier, when he played the chivalrous knight and carried me across the threshold to protect my toesies, I thought he’d make one of them a good boyfriend.

I mean, what woman doesn’t want to be swept off her feet?

But now that he’s gone way beyond the call of duty or even a good Samaritan, I’m sure he’d make one of them a great husband. I only have to convince them.

I chomp another couple of fries with gobs of ketchup dripping off them.

I haven’t indulged in anything this greasy and yummy in months.

After all, I wanted to fit into my dress.

As it is, I should have been in training to run a marathon, which would have been more helpful. “How’d you know I was starving?”

He chuckles. “When my sister got married a few years ago, she didn’t eat all day. So I figured you might be hungry. Food is usually a good place to start. Then maybe a nap. It can make the world look right again.”

I swirl a fry in a sea of ketchup, then leave it to float. I wipe my mouth, suddenly feeling too full. The seams of my dress pinch my waist. I wonder if all that greasy, yummy food will back up on me.

Luke hands me another napkin and gestures to his mouth. I wipe a dollop of ketchup from the corner of mine.

“My mom,” he says, “always told us it’s easier to make a decision on a full stomach.”

“I’m not sure I can eat that pie now,” I whisper.

“We’ll get it to go. Where would you like to go from here?”

I meet Luke’s gaze and am drawn in by his warm, blue eyes. “I don’t know. But you can’t keep carting me around all day. You have a life.”

“My day was devoted to the wedding. This is an extension of that.”

“But you should maybe help Derek.”

“I’m sure he’s okay. He’s got Rob.”

“The one who decorated your truck?”

Luke smiles. “That’s the one.”

“I don’t even have clothes or money.”

“Don’t worry about it. This meal will not break the bank.”

When Crystal brings the check and three big-honking pieces of pie—one for Luke’s dad, don’t ya know—Luke taps the check against Momma’s letter. “This is the letter from your mother? I heard you mention it to your sisters.”

“Yes, she wrote letters to each of us for momentous occasions. She died when I was seven.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s not a flippant response but instead sounds sincere.

“She wanted Dad to give the letter to me on my wedding day. I wish she’d said, ‘Give it to her the moment she gets engaged.’ Or maybe before the engagement. The first time I thought of marrying someone. Then I wouldn’t have wasted so much time and money and caused so much trouble.”

Emotions well up and threaten to spill over. What is wrong with me? I’m never sentimental or weepy, and yet if I let myself start crying, I might never stop. I sniff and look away from Luke.

He covers my hand with his. There’s a warmth and kindness to him that I hadn’t taken the time to know before today, and I regret that. I was too obsessed with my lists and all the wedding details.

I never learned much about Luke. He was part of Derek’s past, not his future.

He wasn’t part of our friends in Atlanta or our business associates.

He lives in Storybrook, a tiny, out-of-the-way town in north Georgia.

My life with Derek was a whirlwind of activity, with never enough time to relax and enjoy the simple pleasures of lingering conversation over a cup of coffee or sipping a glass of Chardonnay while watching a perfect sunset.

I’m about to say something to that effect when Luke says, “Things happen when they’re supposed to happen. You might have read that letter months ago and still not have been ready to make a change. Better to figure it out today rather than tomorrow or next year.”

“That’s what I told Derek.” I feel a smile emerge as an odd kinship with Luke forms. "Not sure he believed me."

“Must be some letter,” Luke says.

“My mother’s dream for my marriage didn’t align with reality. Does that make sense?”

“What about your dreams?”

I worry the napkin in my lap and then confess, “It felt like we were pursuing Derek’s dreams, and I was along for the ride.” I open the letter and pull out the teabag, holding it by the thin string connecting it to the nondescript label. “This was with the letter.”

“A teabag?”

“Strange, huh? What do you think it means?”

He reaches for it, then stops. “May I?”

I nod, and he takes the teabag, flips it over, and studies the faded label.

“Maybe Momma thought a cup of tea sets things right, like your mom thinks decisions are best made on a full stomach.”

“Could be,” Luke says. “Isn’t there a quote about a woman being like a teabag? You can’t tell how strong she is…”

“…Until you put her in hot water,” I finish. “Was marriage the hot water in that metaphor, you think?”

He shrugs. “Did your mom not like being married?”

“She loved my dad. And he loved her. From my seven-year-old perspective, that is. Maybe the cancer was the hot water.”

“Life can be that.” Luke studies the label. “This isn’t a typical national brand.”

“You own a coffee shop, right?”

“On the square in Storybrook.”

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “You could help me find out where the teabag came from.”

He appears uncertain. I dismiss any rational doubts in my mind. Instead, I concentrate on the teabag. There must be a reason, a hidden message Momma was trying to communicate. I need to uncover it so I can justify my actions today. I need her guidance to steer my future. And I will discover it.

“Luke,” I say, “you know distributors of coffee brands and tea companies, right?”

“Sure,” he says almost reluctantly as if he can tell where I’m going with this.

“I could really use your help.” I pause before asking, “Will you?”

He hesitates only a second before saying, “Of course.”