“Sorry about that,” I say, grinning back. It feels good to be able to joke with her—like a sister would, I realize. “Well, I’m going to head back down. I’ll send Cooper up—I know he wants to talk to you.” I make a move to stand up from the bed, but Cara stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Nikki, wait. Here.” She pulls out the wrinkled envelope from beneath the pillow and holds it out to me. “I don’t mind if you read it,” she says. “So you can know for sure I’m not lying about having feelings for Aaron.”
It’s such a vulnerable thing to do, and I’m hit again with the realization I had that day on the boat. Cara Lancolm is a brave woman. She’s willing to lay herself bare just to prove herself to me. And I realize that for all her catty defiance over the past week and a half, she reallydoesseem to want my approval.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I don’t need to read it. I trust you. And…” I pause, taking a breath. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “I think you make a really good addition to the family.”
She turns to look at me in shock—and then her face dissolves into tears.
Not knowing what else to do, I simply wrap my arms around her.
31
IDON’T KNOW HOWlong I lie awake after that conversation with Cara, staring at the ceiling and replaying everything she said. At some point, exhaustion finally drags me under.
When I resurface, it’s to a faint wash of blue-gray coming through the curtains. I’m not sure of the exact time—my alarm clock is blinking out 12:00; the power must have come on during the night—but it’s clearly very early.
The house is still, holding its breath before the big day. Tiptoeing down the stairs, I make myself a cup of tea, grab a throw blanket from the couch, and step outside.
The storm has washed everything clean. The air is cool and bright, the grass sparkling, still damp with rain. The gazebo—sturdy, sanded, gleaming—stands proudly on the west side of the lawn.
I cross over to it and sit on the steps, tucking the blanket around my shoulders.
I remember the years and years of sitting in this very spot, daydreaming about what my life would one day look like. My fairy tale.It all seemed possible, yet a little shapeless, unpindownable, like clouds floating over the lake.
Sitting out here now, it all feels so different. Instead of magic and mystery and grandness, I feel instead how small and intimate the gazebo is. I can see the handiwork in the beams and the trellises that goes back generations. Watching Nate work on its repairs all week has reminded me that it’s just a pretty little human construct, like everything else. Someone had to envision it, someone had to build it. And no matter how perfect it once was, it’s going to need continued work.
No fairy tale. Just dedication. Time. Commitment.
Behind me, a door opens. Then another. Voices, footsteps, the first flurry of the morning.
And just like that, wedding day begins.
THE MORNING’S MESSY, LOUD,buzzing with activity. I find Linney in the kitchen, still in pajamas but already scrolling through her to-do list. “Okay, first: breakfast. We’ve got bagels, fruit, and yogurt. We’ve got OJ for mimosas, we’ve got—oh no.”
She stops dead in front of the fridge.
“What?” I ask, coming up beside her.
She opens the door, and the answer hits us like a wall: the sour smell of spoiled milk and something worse. A puddle of melted frosting glistens on the bottom shelf.
Mom peers over Linney’s shoulder and lets out a small gasp. “The cake.”
“The cake,” I echo, as if saying it might somehow un-melt it back into existence.
The once-perfect three-tier strawberry shortcake—Mom’s masterpiece—is now a sad, slumped ruin. One side has caved completely, frosting drooping like wet snow.
For a heartbeat, no one says anything. Then Cara appears in the doorway, hair up in curlers, wearing an oversize robe. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the scene—and then, to my surprise, she starts laughing.
Not a polite giggle. Full-on, belly-deep laughter. The kind that brings out a whole new side to her personality—or at least, one I hadn’t seen. Loose, messy, real Cara.
Mom’s head snaps toward her, but the scolding doesn’t come. Instead, her lips twitch—and then she’s laughing too.
It’s contagious. Linney joins in next, and before I know it, I’m doubled over against the counter, the tension of the last twenty-four hours cracking like thin ice.
Anna Carol toddles into the room and surveys the white-and-pink, cakey mess with big eyes. “Can we make cupcakes instead?” she asks hopefully.
Cara wipes her eyes. “That actually sounds… perfect.” She looks at Mom and smiles, something soft passing between them.
