Page 18 of The Wedding Run
“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?”
