Page 54 of The Wedding Run
Maybe tonight I’ll uncover a secret about Luke—something shocking, like dust bunnies or inappropriate magazines. I willsearch until I find a reason to dislike him, or at least not like him as much.
I mentally compile a list of things I don't like about Luke… I’m thinking, reflecting, scrambling for something to latch onto.
Number one: that’s a good start.
But my mind goes blank, as if a blinking cursor mocks me.
This is silly. Everyone has idiosyncrasies that annoy and irritate.
Wait! I found one! He’s not good at Monopoly—maybe a smidge better than I am—but still not great. Maybe it suggests he can’t manage his own money. Is he reckless? Is he in debt with maxed-out credit cards? Does he make poor real estate investments? I mean, he did go into business with Derek.
But I was engaged to Derek.
Back to my ‘What not to like about Luke’ list. Again, nothing comes to mind.
As we round the last bend and the quaint cabin comes into view, my mental list disintegrates. The log cabin sits among a cluster of towering pines. Sufficient land has been cleared for the flowering plants to receive ample sunshine. Off to the side is a firepit with two Adirondack chairs for sitting and enjoying the evening hours.
It is the complete opposite of Derek, his high-rise apartment, and the life we had planned. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that Luke and Derek know each other, let alone that they are friends and business partners.
“Derek didn’t tell me your place is so lovely.”
“He made a bid on it.” Luke laughs. “Might be a sore point for him.”
“I can’t see Derek living here.”
“He was going to flip it. It’s a fixer-upper,” Luke says, almost apologetically.
“It’s more than that. It’s…” I search for the right word.
“Nice?” he supplies, hope gleaming in his eyes.
“Nice is not quite right. Not enough. It reminds me of a poem.” I tug the words from my memory. “Who countest the steps of the sun: seeking after that sweet… golden clime… where the travellers' journey… is done.”
Proud of myself for remembering at least part of it, I smile at Luke. But his expression causes a flurry and a flutter in my belly.
“Where did that come from?” he asks.
“William Blake. I read his biography in college, and that poem somehow reminded me of my mother.”
“You continue to surprise me, Libby.”
A wave of happiness washes over me.
Now, if he can surprise me with something dreadful, awful, and perhaps even unseemly, then these crazy feelings will disperse.
While Luke carries the grocery bags inside, I linger, looking over the porch railing at the raised beds in the side yard. They could be photographed for a seed catalog. Each four-by-four square is filled with lush plants, with name plates nailed to wooden stakes.
Luke joins me and leans against the railing. “My folks have helped on numerous projects. This porch was sagging until we lifted it and replaced rotted boards.”
Eager to walk after the drive and explore this paradise of Luke’s, I ask, “Can we look around?”
“Sure.” He leads me down the steps and walks me over to the garden area. “I may have been overly ambitious this year. Oh, look. The first blossom.”
His enthusiasm is endearing. “You might be able to feed the whole town of Storybrook,” I exclaim. “Look at the lettuce… and spinach. We should have picked our salad here.”
“Roxie taught me that I should plant during the waxing of the moon and harvest during the waning.”
“How do you know when the moon is waxing or waning?” I ask.
