Page 2 of Finding Yesterday

For our honeymoon in the Virgin Islands, Hudson and I booked the penthouse suite of a villa with its own private lagoon.

So much for that.

I throw Hudson’s confirmation for our stay at the Golden Cow Casino on the floor. Gritting my teeth, I stare at it, a ball of white against the hickory hardwoods, darkened with age.

I really don’t get it. Hudson does this kind of thing all the time, and I’ve never cared before.

So, why am I losing it now?

I walk to the shelves and grab a bottle of wine that has a vulnerable-looking neck before hitting the lip against the brick wall.

Screw my sister, I need a drink.

Except the bottle won’t break, and if I hit it any harder, the whole thing might burst. Then I’dreallyhave something to panic about.

When the room blurs, I sit on a crate of Daddy’s wines, and my satin dress catches on a piece of splintered wood.

I’m pretty sure this is the moment in the movies when the mother walks in, talks sense into her daughter, and the rest of the wedding goes off without a hitch.

Biting my lip, I pull up my dress to reveal the garter Mama wore on her wedding day. I stroke my fingers over the lacing, which has started to fray. It’s my something old and something borrowed, although technically, you can’t borrow something from someone who’s dead.

Most of my memories of Mama are of the two of us in the kitchen. I couldn’t reach the countertop by myself, but she had a step stool so I could pour the ingredients into the mixing bowls.

Every time I cook, I’m transported back to those moments. She’s standing right next to me, showing me how to knead dough or sprinkle in spices. Sometimes, she’s holding her hands over mine, guiding me as we whisk batter.

I didn’t learn a lot from Mama—I was too young—but I’ll never forget how being with her in the kitchen made me feel.

I’d do anything for that feeling right now. If I could have justonemore of those moments with her, I’d tell her how much I love her and get her motherly advice.

And, of course, I’d ask her how she died.

CHAPTER TWO

“UM, HELLO?” Afamiliar voice echoes outside the door, but it’s definitely not Hudson or any of my family. It’s baritone and rich, and I realize it must be our caterer, Jack Brady.

I hold my breath and stop moving.

“I know you’re in there,” he continues. “This door wasn’t locked before. I’m catering, and I need more wine to serve the wedding guests.”

The wedding guests. Which, thanks to Hudson, are more restaurant investors and foodies than family and friends.

I stay silent, frozen.

“People are starting to foam at the mouth. We’re completely out of redandwhite,” Jack continues, his tone turning urgent. “They’re going to eat me alive, literally and in reviews if you don’t let me get more wine.”

That’s a bit dramatic, although I know Jack’s worked very hard earning his reputation. He wonGrade A Chefbefore opening his popular chophouse on the wharf in San Francisco. Now, he just opened another steakhouse here in Blue Vine with his grandfather, which I’m sure will turn into the hot spot of North Georgia.

That’s why Hudson and I hired Jack to cater our wedding. We don’t eat meat, but we wanted our southern foodie guests to enjoy their steak, barbecue, and buttermilk fried chicken.

“Okay, I’m just going to knock down this door,” he says, his voice firm. “I’m not kidding. I’ve been working out. Please step back.”

I flip the lock on the door and swing it open. “Quick, get in here.”

Jack rushes inside, and I slam the door behind him. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone I’m in here.”

“Um…” he trails off, his eyes huge. “I think people might wonder where the bride is.”

I stare at him. I haven’t seen him in person since we were both seven years old. Hiring him to cater, I’d only spoken to him on the phone. “You’re much taller than I imagined.”

---