Page 67 of The Wedding Run
Stacy smacks his shoulder and pushes him out the door.
My usually gregarious sister is completely serious as she calculates the hours and minutes. “But exactly what time does the wedding start?”
I check my time chart. “Six-twenty-two. Sunrise.”
She makes a few mental calculations.
“Can we do it?” Luke asks.
I appreciate his use of the word ‘we.’ We’re all in this together.
“It’ll be close,” Elle answers. “We can’t afford any delays.”
She means no mistakes—no forgetting to turn on the oven, no burned cake layers, and no omission of an essential ingredient.
“All right then. Let’s get baking.” Elle claps her hands like Ralph Fiennes, the chef in that scary movie, and I see a whole new side of my sister, rather than the frivolous, carefree little girl I’ve always bossed around.
I open a new page on my iPad. “Shall we make a list?”
Elle taps her temple and winks. She sets her watch. “I want the cake finished by five, which means it’s constructed over at the venue. Then we can focus on baking the quiches and such, using the coffee shop’s oven.”
“I’ll get working on scones,” Roxie says.
Elle nods in agreement. “All right, team. On your mark, get set… Start the ovens.”
“That’s our cue.” Luke gestures toward the double oven. We make it beep multiple times before it begins to preheat.
“We need some tunes.” Charlie perches at the kitchen table, out of the way. Bailey curls up beside her, his head resting on his paws. She connects her phone, and some strange psychedelic sounds flow through the portable speaker.
Roxie, Luke, and I pause to stare at Charlie.
“What?” she asks. “We need to combat all the frenetic energy in here.”
“And go insane?” Elle asks, continuing to move three times faster than the music’s beat. If you can call that music.
“I’ll take over as DJ,” Luke volunteers. Charlie reluctantly hands her phone to him. Soon, he’s got a driving beat that matches Elle’s rhythm.
Luke and I steer clear of Elle and Roxie while fetching eggs and milk when they call for them. Then we stay busy washing and drying measuring cups and mixing bowls. Do you know how many dishes and bowls it takes to make a wedding cake? That’s not meant as a joke, like: how many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb? Trust me, it takes a lot.
My phone rings, and I check to see if it’s our bride. But it’s Derek. I don’t have time for his drama tonight, so I silence my phone.
“Can’t you reuse this?” I hold up a spoon.
Luke snatches it and washes it like a good soldier.
Our hands meet in the transfer of a bowl. “Sorry,” we mutter and keep moving quickly and efficiently.
But Elle has us all beat. She’s a whirling dervish, stirring, scraping, and pouring. I marvel at her. I’ve only ever seen her creations, never ‘the making of,’ and it’s a sight to behold.
Luke grabs the broom from the pantry and sweeps flour dribbled on the brick floor, which Bailey licks up. “Your sister is an artist.”
“Is that what you call it?” I swipe a blob of vanilla off the counter and then a splash of milk.
After the cake layers are queued for alternating shifts inside the oven—three layers each for four tiers—you do the math—we pause to munch on pizza. Elle never even sits but keeps peering into the ovens.
Wade tells her, “A watched pot never boils.”
“She knows what she’s doing,” Roxie says.
