“Maman, I am contributing. Meesha has insisted that the wedding be bilingual. We’ll be serving poutine as an appetizer and Shepard’s pie as a main.”
“And our first dance will be a French song,” Meesha interjects, then turns to Elise. “And we’re incorporating a traditional Caribbean black cake for one tier. My mother is sending her recipe. It’s soaked in rum and has dried fruits.”
My mother’s expression sours. “Rum cake? At a formal wedding? That seems rather... basic, doesn’t it?”
The room goes silent. Elise suddenly becomes very interested in her notebook.
“Basic?” Meesha repeats, her voice dangerously quiet.
I place my hand on Meesha’s knee under the table, while simultaneously turning to my mother.
“That’s enough, Maman,” I say in rapid French. “You’re being disrespectful.”
“I’m thinking of your guests,” she replies in English, ensuring Meesha understands. “Will they appreciate such strong flavors?”
“I requested the Caribbean cake,” I state firmly, switching back to English. “It’s honoring Meesha’s family traditions, and I love her mother’s recipe.”
Meesha’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes.
“Perhaps we could do a compromise,” Elise suggests diplomatically. “A three-tier cake: one vanilla with strawberry for the groom’s guests, one chocolate hazelnut that you both enjoy, and the Caribbean black cake tier to honor the bride’s family traditions?”
Before Maman can object, I nod. “That sounds perfect.”
“But—” Maman begins.
“Parfait,” I repeat more firmly in French, looking directly at her. “Thank you for your input, Maman, but Meesha and I have made our decision.”
Maman’s lips press into a thin line, but she says nothing more. Meesha’s shoulders relax beside me.
Meesha
I wake in perfectdarkness, momentarily disoriented until I feel Connor’s warm body pressed against mine. His arm drapes possessively across my waist, his breath steady against my neck.
The digital clock on the nightstand glows 8:17 AM in neon blue, while next to it, my phone calendar notification from last night still illuminates: “4 WEEKS TO WEDDING - Dress Fitting Today!”
The rental house has bare walls, minimal furniture, and none of the warmth of his actual home. Yet somehow, lying here in this queen-sized bed that’s too small for his frame, I feel more at peace than I have in weeks. At least here, Vivienne and Frédérique aren’t lurking around corners.
Connor stirs beside me, his arm tightening around my waist. “Mmm, bonjour,” he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep.
I turn to face him, barely making out his features in the darkness. “Morning,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his chin.
His eyes remain closed, but a smile curves his lips. “Quelle heure est-il?”
“Just after eight.”
“Ben parfait,” he pulls me closer, his hands sliding under my t-shirt. “On reste au lit toute la journée, hein? Let’s stay in bed all day. We could order in, watch movies, make love...” His hand slides down my hip.
I let myself imagine lazy Saturday mornings in our new house with its big windows. My bringing home stories from the hospital, the two of us laughing around the dinner table, before settling in our bed to read a novel together.
I capture his wandering hand, bringing it to my lips instead. “I can’t. Remember? My new dress came in yesterday. I need to go check that it’s actually there and safe this time.”
“Ah, right. Want me to come with you?”
“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress,” I remind him, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and pulling open the blackout curtains. Winter Bay’s morning light floods the room, making me squint.
“That’s seeing the bride in the dress,” he corrects, propping himself up on one elbow. The silver in the Saint Sebastian medallion that never leaves his neck glints. “Not the dress itself.”
I gather my shower essentials and lay out my outfit for the day. “Better safe than sorry. Besides, don’t you have to meet with a client later?”
