Page 86 of The Wedding Run
“I’m guessing your daddy told you I attended your wedding.”
I’m shocked but not surprised. Aunt Barb has always done whatever she wanted. Even though I didn’t invite her to the wedding, I’m sure she heard about it one way or another.
“Your daddy always had his own ideas about how you girls should be raised. I worried he didn’t have what it took to care for three little girls. But your Momma never fretted a day. She knew your daddy would be there through thick and thin.”
“He was,” I say. “He still is.”
“Surely you’re aware your daddy doesn’t like me much.”
“Dad’s never said a word against you.”
“He’s a gentleman, for sure. When your momma passed, I told Mike I didn’t think he was in any shape to care for you three.”
I can feel my heart pounding as I ask, “Did you try to take us from him?”
“Raising kids. Grieving a wife. It’s a lot. Mike was a young man, and it wasn’t like you were all—” She stops suddenly. “Well, it was a lot.”
“We were all what?” I ask, pressing the phone tightly against my ear.
“Your Uncle Jimmy always says my mouth is bigger than a big-mouth bass. And he’s right. He surely is. It was great to hear your voice, hon.”
The phone goes dead, leaving me with questions and doubts. As my thoughts drift back to Luke, I feel a tightness in my chest and realize I’m even more alone.
CHAPTER 44
Libby
I’m not sure how I ever fell asleep, but after an hour or two of tossing and turning, burying my face in my pillow, I must have slept hard. I wake to a burst of sunshine streaming through my window blinds and slanting across the bed, where I kicked the comforter and sheets to the floor.
I stumble out of bed, tripping over my open suitcase with clothes spilling over the edge. I’m tempted to tidy up, but I feel the urgent call for coffee even more.
Soon, the water boils, and coffee grounds settle at the bottom of my cup. I stir my elixir, but the first sip makes me push it away. It doesn’t compare to Luke’s coffee, which I’ve become addicted to. Not that I’m going to tell him that.
Wandering aimlessly around my apartment, I contemplate putting my clothes away, doing laundry, dusting, and watering. Yet, I feel adrift, undulating away from the dock of my life into the wide-open sea and beyond, with no idea where I’m going, what I’m doing, or why.
Finally, I settle at the kitchen table and pull out Momma’s letter from my purse. I reread her words, searching between the lines for a hint or clue. Her words pull me in, hold me fast, andcomfort me with her wisdom. But there’s nothing to explain the teabag.
There’s no doubt that I made the right decision about Derek. But now what? What am I supposed to do with my life? What about the list of things I’ve been ticking off, all before I reach the age of thirty? Momma was thirty when she passed away. She was married and had three children. What do I have? A mostly empty apartment and instant coffee? Some things in life don’t happen instantaneously, like marriage and kids. It takes planning and… time. But who knows how much time any of us have?
The teabag in my palm feels as light as if it could blow away, carrying with it any wisdom Momma might have for me. She was always full of lessons that didn’t feel like book learning.
I remember a rainy afternoon from long ago. Elle and Charlie were napping, and I was bored without my playmates. I tucked Barbie into her pink plastic bed and asked Momma, “What can I do?”
With a secretive smile, she pulled me into the kitchen with yellow-checked wallpaper and white cabinets. She took out an old, crinkly piece of paper from her recipe book, a binder she had decorated with fabric and ribbons. Elle keeps it in her kitchen now since she’s the family baker.
“These cookies,” Momma said, “are from my grandmother’s recipe. And her mother taught her.”
As we gathered flour, sugar, and butter, Momma said, “When my grandmother showed me how to make these, she didn’t even have a recipe written down. She knew it by heart because she’d made it so often. It was my grandfather’s favorite dessert. With chocolate ice cream on the side. She never even measured, just instinctively knew how much. She helped me measure each ingredient, pouring salt into her palm and transferring it to a teaspoon so I could write it down.”
Momma let me mix the ingredients, and chunks of butter and sugar plopped onto the counter, making us laugh.
“You had to be strong in her day. Libby,” she said. “The greatest thing we hand down from generation to generation is not our genes or recipes or even antique dishes. It’s the stories we tell about those who came before us and the love that holds us together. No matter what happens, remember that.”
I remember, Momma.
Is that what she meant by the crumbled tea leaves in the flimsy bag?
Still, no matter what happens, I will remember that I am connected to Momma, her mother, and her mother’s mother through all the stories, recipes, and memories.
