Page 34 of The Wedding Run
“Really?” I ask, partially devastated.
“Of course not,” Charlie says, elbowing Elle. “You did what you had to do. Better before the wedding than after. How long are you staying with Luke?”
“His parents,” Elle corrects.
“Thank you,” I say. “Only through Saturday. I’m helping with a wedding.”
“Of course, you are.” Elle grins and points to Charlie. “If you need a photographer…”
“Or,” Charlie chimes in, tilting her head toward Elle, “a phenomenal baker…”
“I’m not sure what the bride has booked yet. But I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.
“By the way, I hate to ask, but I have to. What happened to that amazing cake and all the flowers?”
“We took them to Oakwood,” Elle answers.
My hand covers my heart. Oakwood is the assisted living facility where my grandparents lived. We still visit the residents every Christmas.
“They were ecstatic,” Charlie adds. “Mr. Stemfield handed flowers to all the ladies.”
Elle grins. “He was trying to get some. If you know what I mean!”
Charlie and I groan.
“It was Delia’s idea,” Elle explains. “And Charlie is going to submit the photos as an article to Bride Magazine, of course.” She looks adoringly at her sister.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie says, “I changed the bride’s name to protect the guilty.”
“Ha, ha,” I say, but I am secretly relieved.
CHAPTER 17
Libby
Luke and I sit side by side in his truck on our way to his coffee shop. It’s awkward, to say the least. Should I tell him I didn’t see anything? Or not everything? Not much anyway?
The silence drags between us. I pretend to look out the window at the sights, but I can’t concentrate on anything but Luke as he steers around an old farmer putt-putt-putting a tractor right through the center of town.
“Look at that sky!” I say, to fill the silence and distract myself.
Luke mutters a ‘huh,’ but he says nothing else.
Quiet makes me jittery. “See that cloud?” I gesture toward the windshield. “My sisters and I used to play that game when we were kids. What does it look like to you?”
He leans over his steering wheel to peer upward.
That’s when I realize the traitorous cloud looks like the mud flap on a semi. You know, the kind with a curvy woman sticking out her exaggerated chest and her hair curling seductively in the wind.
“That cloud?” Luke asks, not betraying his own interpretation.
“No, the…” But that is the only cloud in the sky. “Yeah,” I shrink down into the passenger seat, “that one.”
“Looks like a jackrabbit,” he says, making the final turn for The Brew. “Some say clouds give us messages from those who have passed on.”
“Really?” I ask, wondering what message my mother might be trying to convey through that cloud formation. Maybe I don’t want to know. Or maybe I’m searching in places where nothing exists. Perhaps that’s true of the teabag too.
