Page 8 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Libby

D ressed in Luke’s sister’s faded jeans and a T-shirt that advertises a feed store, I make my way to the kitchen, glancing at an assortment of family photos lining the walls.

Alongside the portraits are framed paintings reminiscent of Van Gogh, featuring thick, heavy strokes of bright colors.

The artist signed ‘S. Maine’ in the lower right corner of each painting.

In the cheerful yellow kitchen, I find Stacy and Wade.

“Oh good,” Stacy says, seeing me. “Come sit down. I was about to serve pie. The slices are too big for one serving.”

“I could eat the whole thing,” Wade volunteers.

"Could and should are two different things," Stacy says, tsking at her husband in a playful manner. “Would you like a big piece, Libby, or what I call watching-my-weight sliver?”

“Actually, I’m still full from lunch, but please go ahead.”

“I understand.” Stacy offers a sympathetic smile. “Sometimes when there’s much on the mind, the stomach would rather stay empty. There’s plenty if you get a hankering in the middle of the night. Don’t be shy. Make yourself at home.”

She slices and serves Wade, who doesn’t hesitate to dig in.

I settle into a wooden chair at the table. “I wonder what my sisters did with the wedding cake,” I muse aloud. The beginning of a headache pinches my temples. “It was so beautiful. I hate to think of it going to waste.”

“I’m sure your sisters are taking care of everything. Is there anything I can do to help you?" Stacy asks. "Would you like me to draw you a bath?”

“I’m going to turn in for the night. If that’s all right.”

“You must be plumb tuckered out,” she says.

The back door opens, and Luke enters carrying a huge box wrapped in sparkly white paper. He sets it on the counter. “From your father,” he explains. “It was in the bed of my truck… well, I thought I best bring it in for the night.”

“I hope Dad kept the receipt. He’ll have to take it back.”

“You can sort it all out later,” Stacy advises.

“Did you save some lemon meringue?” Luke asks, eyeing the pie containers.

“You don’t want that,” Wade says, his mouth full of pie.

Smiling at her two men, Stacy slices another piece of pie, definitely not the watching-my-weight version, and sets it before Luke.

“Was that Derek who called?” I ask.

“Actually,” Luke says, grabbing a fork, “it was a tea expert I know. If you’re available in the morning, we’ll meet her at The Brew.”

“Wow. That was fast. Thank you.”

“No problem.” He focuses on the pie.

“I can’t thank all of you enough,” I say. “Derek told me you were like family to him. And I can see why.”

Luke digs into the pie. “We gave him no choice.”

“That’s right,” Stacy says. “He needed a family, and we scooped him up before he knew it. While the boys were in college, we saw them often. Many a weekend, those two would drag their laundry home.”

“Stace would cook up a storm,” Wade says, “and do the boys’ laundry. Derek’s a fine young man. Got a good head on his shoulders. Especially for business.”

“He is a good man,” I agree. “I want you to know it wasn’t Derek who caused all this today. It was me.”

“Ain’t no one to blame,” Wade assures me. “These things happen. And they tend to work out for the best.”

“That’s right,” Stacy agrees, placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder.

Luke polishes off the last of his slice. “It’s getting late. I have a truck to clean. Before everyone in the county thinks I’m married.”

“I’ve already received a few phone calls,” Stacy says.

“I should help you with washing your truck,” I volunteer. Seeing Luke’s hesitancy, I hurry on, “It’s the least I can do. After all I put you through today. Besides, it will keep my mind off, well, you know.”

“All right. We’ll take care of it tomorrow. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

As the house settles and the sun sinks low, I sit on the edge of the quilted bed. A fluttering breeze drifts through the open window. The cool mountain air is refreshing and brisk and scented with pine.

This is Luke’s sister’s room. The name ‘Sophie’ is emblazoned on ribbons, certificates, and soccer trophies.

Her room looks like she ran out this morning to catch the bus for school.

Another framed picture shows Sophie in a silk wedding dress.

She’s beautiful, and I see the resemblance to Luke in their blue eyes and sunny smiles.

A bookcase holds classics and mysteries. Instantly, I know we would be friends if we ever have the chance to meet. A booklover always loves another booklover.

A bulletin board holds a few ticket stubs and snapshots of high school plays, college football games, and dorky prom dates.

It makes me smile remembering my own high school and college days and milestones along the way.

With each, Momma wrote a letter with her wisdom, advice, and love tucked between the lines.

From the sketches that are pinned to the bulletin board, I wonder if Sophie is the artist or if it's Stacy. Whoever, the artist is gifted, and I hope she’s still painting.

But I know from my own closet, which has worn and dusty ballet shoes, yarn from my knitting phase, and a tennis racket that needs to be restrung, old passions tend to lose their fire as we age, like my undying love for Zac Ephron.

My gaze shifts from my battered wedding dress hanging on the closet door to Momma’s letter on the bedside table. This will be a day I will remember forever, filled with embarrassment and enormous relief. It should be my wedding night, the beginning of our honeymoon, but I am all alone.

Headlights swoop across the window, situated along the front of the house. A car door slams, and I hear a deep voice call, “What are you up to, Maine?”

I creep toward the window, staying low, and peek out from behind the curtain. Derek. Immediately, I duck back, holding my breath. I can’t avoid him forever, but I don’t want or need to see him tonight.

Another deep voice interrupts my thoughts. It’s Luke responding to Derek. But I can’t make out what he’s saying, and I lean closer to the open window.

“She here?” Derek asks.

I dare another glance. Derek wears slacks and a button-down. I bet ten bucks he has a sports coat draped over the passenger seat.

“She’s staying with my folks,” Luke answers.

“Did you have something to do with this, Luke? You left, and then poof! she was gone.”

“I went to get the ring, Derek. The ring you forgot.” Luke pulls something from his pocket and hands it to Derek. “On my way back, Libby was walking along the highway. I didn’t think that was safe, so I offered to help. That’s all.”

Derek opens the ring box and then snaps it shut. “Let me talk to her.”

“Tomorrow would be better. She’s tired. You’re tired. You don’t want to say something you’ll regret.”

“I have a flight in the morning,” Derek says as he stuffs the velvet box in his pocket.

“You’re going on your honeymoon? Alone? Or…? Oh, the property. Why else would you choose Ohio over Maui? All to make a deal.”

“What would you know about making a buck?” Derek challenges. “Or getting married?”

I sense a shift in the air, a combativeness I was not expecting.

There’s a pause before Luke says, “You should go.”

“I’m not sure you’re the one who should be telling me about women, Luke.” Derek takes an angry step forward.

But Luke squares up, clearly not one to back down.

I hold my breath, worrying someone is going to get punched in the face. By the looks of it, Luke can hold his own or better.

Finally, Derek raises his hands in a defensive posture. “Look, I need you to keep her here. Until I return.”

“This isn’t medieval times, Derek. She can do whatever she wants.”

“Yeah, and you’re no knight in shining armor,” Derek accuses. “Don’t go playing the hero, all right?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Luke says.

“Hey, man, aren’t you my best man? It’ll only be a few days,” Derek cajoles.

Oh, how I recognize that tone, the one that could coax me into going out when all I wanted was to stay home with a good book, relax in jeans and a comfy T-shirt, or tend my garden.

“Just talk to her,” Derek continues. “Help her rethink her decision. Talk me up. Remind her that we’re good together.”

“She must have her reasons for thinking otherwise,” Luke counters. “Her mother’s letter?—”

“Who cares about some musty old letter written twenty-something years ago? What does that have to do with today? With us?”

“Maybe more than you think.”

“Look, man, you owe me. I don’t like to remind you of that, but you do.”

There’s a longer pause, and I wonder if I missed Luke’s response. I lean closer to the open window, so close that I jeopardize my clandestine position. But I have to hear what is being said.

Finally, Luke says, “She wants me to help her find something that belonged to her mother. It’s a way for me to, you know, be with her.”

“Be with her?” Derek repeats, his tone deepening with a solid dose of irritation.

“Help her out,” Luke revises, “like you asked. Keep her here. For you. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Okay, fine. But don’t get any ideas. All right?”

Luke says nothing for a long time then, “I’ll do what I can.”

I release the curtain as car doors slam, engines start, and tires squeal as they peel away. “Just you try, Luke Maine,” I whisper into the night. “Just you try.”