Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
After almost two hours of idle chatter and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres, my jaw is starting to ache from the forced smile that I’m wearing. Everything has been going smoothly so far, aside from the awkward conversation about Zach and the museum gala. As the drinks and snacks start to dwindle, I mentally begin plotting my escape. I only took a few sips of my mimosa before switching to coffee, knowing I need to return to the shop to finish the baby shower cookies before meeting Tucker at home.
Just as I’m about to make my move, the conversation turns to the one topic everyone is avoiding but surely thinking about—Charlotte, the missing ex-fiancée.
“I always knew that girl was trouble,” Shelby Ann declares, her eyebrows knitting together in disapproval. “She was just too perfect, you know? Like, who actually volunteers at the animal shelter and teaches Sunday school?”
Caroline nods, taking a delicate sip of her mimosa. “Imagine how her mother must feel. I’ve heard she barely leaves the house now. That she’s practically a recluse.”
“Poor Mrs. Spencer,” says Shelby Ann, tilting her head sympathetically. “First she loses her husband and then her only daughter leaves town without a word.”
“Where do you think she went?” I ask quietly.
“A fabulous beach somewhere in the Caribbean is my guess,” says Eliza Jane. “Didn’t you see that post she put on social media? A picture of a mai tai with the ocean in the background. She captioned it ‘I’m fine, everyone. Stop messaging me.’”
Shelby Ann nods. “Yeah, I saw it. It makes sense that she’d be on a beach, because I heard she ran away with one of those charter boat captains.” Then she shrugs. “But no one knows for sure.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, suddenly feeling trapped as the conversation turns to Charlotte’s disappearance. It’s clear that her absence has left a gaping hole in this tight-knit circle of friends, but the reactions around the table are as varied as the women themselves.
Caroline looks visibly distressed. “I just don’t understand,” she says, her voice trembling. “Charlotte never mentioned anything about having doubts or second thoughts. And now, she’s gone without a word. Not even a single text to let me know she’s okay.”
The hurt and confusion in her eyes is palpable, and I find myself feeling a pang of sympathy for her.
“Didn’t you get the Christmas card? Charlotte may have left without a word, but she still managed to send out holiday cards this year. One of those gold-embellished numbers from that expensive shop she uses in New York.”
“Yes, I did, but…”
As the discussion continues, I notice the mixed emotions swirling around the table. Some of the women seem genuinely concerned for Charlotte’s well-being, while others appear indifferent, as if her disappearance is nothing more than a momentary distraction from their own lives.
I can only imagine how many of these women stood beside Charlotte on their own wedding days, giggling and sipping champagne as she helped adjust their veil or touch up their lipstick. They probably shared countless secrets and inside jokes, forging the kind of bonds that only come from years of friendship. And then, without warning, Charlotte was gone. No goodbye, no explanation, just a void where a vibrant presence once stood.
But just when I start to feel empathy for them, Eliza Jane leans in, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Speaking of Charlotte,” she stage-whispers, “I heard she and Tucker had quite the, ahem, active sex life. Apparently, she had a thing for role-playing. You know, like nurse and patient, cop and robber, that sort of thing.”
I nearly choke on my coffee, my face suddenly burning red. Is she serious right now?
Shelby Ann turns to me, a wicked gleam in her eye. “What about you, Reese? Has Tucker ever mentioned any of his kinky little secrets? I mean, you’re about to marry the man. Surely you must know all about his dirty laundry.”
I can’t believe she has the nerve to ask me that. Maybe Charlotte was right to leave. These women are savage.
I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is an embarrassing squeak. The answer is no, Tucker is not into kinky role-play, but I’m not about to dish the dirt on our sex life. Just as I am about to make an excuse to leave, Monica appears and claps her hands together.
“Ladies!” she chirps. “It’s time for the cake pull!”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally. Once the cake pull is over, I’m free to make a quick exit.
For those not in the know, a cake pull is a long-standing Southern tradition where charms are baked into the wedding cake, each one symbolizing a different blessing for the bride and her attendants. It’s supposed to be a sweet, lighthearted moment, a chance to celebrate the future. But honestly, I feel like the whole thing is a bit childish. The idea that a tiny trinket baked into a cake could somehow predict or shape our futures seems more than a little far-fetched to me. I mean, really? A miniature horseshoe is going to magically bring me good fortune and success? Please.
The double doors of the event room swing open, and a uniformed waiter pushes a cart into the room, bearing a stunning three-tiered white cake. The baker in me can’t help but analyze the design, and I have to admit, I’m impressed. The cake is a masterpiece of sugared roses and expertly airbrushed stencils. It sits atop a large silver platter, with about two dozen cords dangling over the side, each one tied to a handwritten name card.
One by one, the ladies take their turn, each one retrieving a unique charm with its own special meaning. There’s a heart for true love, a key for new opportunities, and a four-leaf clover for good luck. Each charm is met with gasps of delight and excited chatter.
“Look, look, it’s a baby rattle!” gasps Shelby Anne.
“Oh, you know what that means,” Caroline chimes in. “Time to start picking out colors for the nursery!”
As I watch the spectacle unfold, I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Are these ladies for real? But as I glance around at the faces of the women surrounding me, I realize that my skepticism is decidedly in the minority. They’re all buying into this wholeheartedly, ooh ing and ahh ing over each charm like it’s a priceless treasure.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, the South is steeped in traditions and superstitions, from burying bourbon bottles to ward off rain on wedding days to never taking a new broom when you move lest you sweep away your good luck. And if I’m being honest, that old-fashioned charm is part of what drew me to this place to begin with.
Still, as I watch Vivienne practically swoon over her champagne flute charm and Genevieve wax poetic about the deep symbolism of her butterfly, I can’t quite suppress the wry smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth. It all just seems so…silly. Like we’re a bunch of grown women playing at being little girls, pinning our hopes and dreams on bits of metal and enamel.
Then again, who am I to judge? I bake fairy-tale-style wedding cakes for a living.
Suddenly it’s my turn. I step up to the cake, my heart fluttering with nervous excitement as I reach for the name card with Reese neatly written across it. I give the cord a gentle tug, feeling the resistance as the charm emerges from the depths of the cake.
When I hold it up to the light, my breath catches in my chest. There, dangling from the end of the ribbon, is a tiny silver knife, its blade glinting menacingly in the soft glow of the chandeliers. At the tip of the knife is a tiny bit of painted-on blood.
A bloody knife? My mind reels. What is a bloody knife supposed to represent? It can’t be anything good. If my memory serves me, in the language of cake pulls, a knife symbolizes a broken relationship, a severed bond, a future filled with pain and heartache.
This isn’t good.
I stare at it, my mind working through the implications. Is this some kind of twisted joke? A cruel prank?
I glance around the circle of smiling faces, trying to gauge their reactions. But they’re all too busy cooing over their own charms—a heart for true love, an anchor for stability, a flower for beauty—to notice what’s happened.
Except for Monica, who is staring at me expectantly. I force a smile, tucking the knife back into the folds of my napkin. “How lovely,” I manage to choke out, my voice brittle. “A knife, how…unique.”
She beams at me, oblivious to my discomfort. Did she have something to do with this?
“A knife, how perfect. It symbolizes cutting ties with the past and starting something new. Appropriate, especially for a baker, don’t you think?”
I’m practically speechless. Could she be talking about Zach?
“Where did you get these?” I manage to ask, my voice practically a whisper.
“I had them custom-made by this little shop in Charleston. They’re one of a kind, just like our sweet Tucker.”
I nod, my throat suddenly dry. One of a kind, indeed.