Page 7 of The Wedding Run
I hand the letter to Dad and move around the room, pacing from door to window, restless with pent-up emotions that can’t find an escape valve. Blinking hard, I resist the tears stinging my eyes.Don’t cry now.
Grief eclipses the happiness of my wedding day. I’m seven years old again, weighted with sorrow. It sloshes around inside me like a torrent with no outlet.
I remember that long-ago morning, my legs dangling from a tire swing in the backyard, my tennis shoes scuffing the dirt as I turned and turned until my toes strained and the ropes above me, looping over the tree branch, twisted and tightened. Then I lifted my feet, and the tire swung, swirling around in reverse. The backyard zoomed around me—the screen door, Daddy’s grill, Momma’s garden, the plants withered and dried in the heat of August, blurring past in a golden vortex. I shut my eyes tight. The tire zipped and zagged, lurching and swaying. My stomach gurgled.
As the tire settled, I breathed again, opened my eyes, and looked around. Nothing had changed. The sun still shone high above in the pale blue sky. The grass had patches of brown. And Momma was still gone. It was too much for me to understand.
Stretching my legs out, I tiptoed around in a circle again, the ropes overhead twisting until the tension became too great. Then came the blessed release with the spinning, the turning, the wind against my face.
I feel that now.
I couldn’t understand the black hole that swallowed my family that day. But I’ve come to… if not understand it, at least to recognize the vastness of her absence.
“You okay, Sugarbug?” Dad approaches. “Maybe I was wrong to give you this today.”
I lean my head against his shoulder, the groove where my cheek has come to rest so many times over the years. He is my rock, and I steady. “I’m glad you gave it to me.”
His arm comes around me, and we gain strength from each other. This can’t be easy on him either. He misses her, too.
He hands me the letter again. As I place my hand over her precise handwriting, my heart begins to absorb Momma’s words one by one, accepting them, welcoming her advice, wisdom, and courage.
Gently, I refold the paper and tuck it inside the envelope as I fold Momma’s words into my heart. Something prevents the letter from sliding effortlessly inside the opening. I peer inside and remove a pristine teabag.
“Why is this in here?”
Dad looks as surprised as I am. “I don’t know. Your mother did love her tea.”
“Like Charlie,” I say.
He opens his arms wide, and I step into his embrace. We lean against each other. I’m sure the years since her death have been difficult for him as he raised three little girls all on his own. But he never complained. He never acted like we were a burden. Even during the past year, he’s been a peach, listening to wedding plansad nauseum, nodding, agreeing, and helping pay for things that, until this moment, seemed so important to me.
My mind spins in circles like that old tire swing until it finally sways to a stop on the answer I cannot avoid.
Then, as suddenly as the anxiety appeared, I now feel resolute. I plant my feet as I once did in that patch of dirtbeneath the swing and make my decision. As hard as it seems, it is also the easiest option imaginable. I am not plagued by doubts. I don’t have the urge to create a list of alternatives. It is simply the only possibility.
I look at my father, the man who has always been there for me in the middle of the night when I had nightmares, on rainy afternoons with popcorn and movies, after less-than-perfect dates, or when a certain boy didn’t call, or even after a difficult school exam. He was and is calm in whatever storm I find myself in. He’s my anchor, a steady arm, a solid shoulder. And I need him now more than ever.
“Dad, there’s something I have to do.”
He peers closely, dabs a finger on my cheek, and shows me an eyelash quivering at the tip of his finger. His experience with feminine matters has taught him about overwhelming emotions, and he’s learned to distract. This is his usual ploy. “Make a wish.”
“It’s too late for wishing, Dad.” I draw a fortifying breath and break the news. “I have to cancel the wedding.”
CHAPTER 3
Luke
It’s going to be a long day. I sip my black coffee from my to-go cup that touts the name of my shop, The Brew, while I watch Derek, my best friend and the groom of today’s proceedings, pace inside the B&B cottage off the main house. I’ve seen this look before. He’s like a caged tiger, and I slide his coffee, which is all jacked up with extra espresso and a dash of whiskey, behind a knick-knack. Out of sight.
Derek’s voice grows louder with agitation as he speaks into his phone, “…not much time. If we want the investment… That’s better.” He checks his expensive watch. “I’ve got about an hour. Call me back.”
He clicks off and looks in the mirror, straightening his bowtie. We were college roommates, and although our lives have taken different paths, we remain connected through our friendship and my coffee shop, where Derek was the principal investor. It helps that he was born with a Bentley in his daddy’s six-car garage.
“I told you Delia wouldn’t sell.” I lean against the four-poster bed.
“That’s not the only game in town,” he counters.
“Take a day off,” I say. “You only get married once.”
