Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

I pull through the gate of Tucker’s sprawling estate, the crunch of gravel beneath my tires a welcome sound. After I left the bridal luncheon, I made my way back to the shop to finish the order of baby shower cookies. Bernie had baked each cookie to perfection, then laid them out for me in neat rows, ready for decorating. All I had to do was apply the icing and let them dry overnight.

The whole process only took me a couple of hours, but it drained me of every last bit of energy I had. The thought of Tucker wrapping his tanned arms around me is the only thing keeping me awake at this point.

The landscaped lights flicker on to greet the evening sky, lighting up the house like a castle. As I step out of my car, I take a moment to breathe in the heady scent of magnolia blossoms and freshly cut grass. There’s no denying that it’s a beautiful property with its grand limestone facade, perfectly manicured bushes, and towering windows. I remind myself how lucky I am to be living here for the past six months—even though it still doesn’t quite feel like home.

Tucker moved in here after his grandmother died a couple of years ago, and spent a small fortune redecorating the place. Or I should say, Charlotte redecorated the place, as Monica oh-so-casually mentioned the first time we met. For months, Charlotte worked with an expensive designer, handpicking every detail from the wall colors to the fixtures and fabrics. The end result is breathtaking, straight out of Southern Living magazine. But living in a home that’s essentially Charlotte’s masterpiece leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Maybe someday I’ll hire someone to help me at the shop, so I have time to put my own signature touches on the place. For now, I’m stuck with Charlotte’s vision for the property, her presence looming over me like a ghost.

I push the thought aside while I make my way up the front steps, my heels clicking against the polished wood. This is my home now, for better or worse.

As I step through the front door, the aroma of bourbon and bitters greets me. Tucker’s in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and his brow furrowed in concentration as he crafts the perfect cocktail. It’s not often that Tucker is waiting for me when I get home. He’s usually busy with work, especially the last few months. I often end up alone at the end of the day, having a lonely glass of wine in our cavernous kitchen.

“Welcome home, darlin’,” he drawls in his honey-smooth voice. “I figured you could use a little pick-me-up after your big day with the ladies.”

I lean across the counter, plucking the glass from his hand and taking a sip. The smooth burn of the bourbon mingles with the sweet tang of citrus. I let out a little moan of appreciation.

“Tucker Harding, you sure do know the way to a woman’s heart,” I say.

He grins, that lopsided smile that never fails to make my knees go weak. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

I notice a large white gift bag sitting in the center of the island.

“What’s this?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Oh nothing, just a little gift for my future wife.”

I set my drink down and pull the bag, which is rather heavy, toward me. I tug at the delicate tissue and reach inside to find a crisp white box, with a gold Dior logo emblazoned on the side.

“Tucker, you didn’t have to get me anything…”

If there’s one thing I can say about my fiancé, it’s that he is generous with his gifts. Barely a week passes by when he doesn’t gift me with some designer perfume or a new handbag. I can only imagine how many thousands of dollars he’s spent on gifts for me. And while I’m not nearly as into the designer goods as most of the women in our social group, I still appreciate the fact that he wants to spoil me.

I pry open the box, revealing a delicate purse adorned with glistening pearl-colored beads that shimmer under the light. “It’s beautiful,” I say, almost breathless.

“I thought you could wear it to the wedding reception.”

I turn the purse in the light. I wasn’t lying, it is a beautiful purse. “Thank you,” I murmur.

He makes his way around the island, until he’s just a few inches in front of me. I set the purse back on the counter as he locks his arms around my waist. I have to push up on my tiptoes to kiss him.

“Only the best for my beautiful bride,” he says.

I breathe in the smell of his skin which is mixed with an oaky-scented cologne. Tucker has a way of making me forget about my worries. When his arms are wrapped around me, everything else seems to fade away. We stand there locked in a long kiss for a few minutes, and for a moment I think we might abandon our drinks and head to the bedroom. He pulls away.

“Let’s go sit in the living room,” he says. “I want to hear all about your day.”

The two of us settle onto the large leather sofa. Tucker leans back and I prop my legs up on his lap. I haven’t eaten much since the luncheon, and the bourbon is already going to my head.

“So, how did it go today?” he asks, his fingers idly playing with a strand of my hair. “Did Shelby Ann regale you with tales of her latest plastic surgery? Or did Eliza Jane finally admit to sleeping with her tennis instructor?”

I snort, nearly choking on my drink. “You are terrible,” I say playfully. “They were…nice.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Come on, really?”

“Okay, okay… I felt like I was a prized heifer being sized up at the county fair. One wrong move and I’m off to the butcher.”

Tucker throws his head back in laughter. “Sounds about right.”

“Am I really going to have to socialize with these women for the rest of our lives?”

He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “They’re not so bad, once you get to know them. You just have to realize they’re all desperately insecure. And here you are, young and beautiful, with your own bakery. They’re probably a little intimidated by you.”

“Right, intimidated by me,” I say, rolling my eyes dramatically. I can’t resist scoffing at the idea that Caroline, with her carefully manicured nails and designer handbag, would be intimidated by me . She certainly wasn’t intimidated when she brought up Zach.

But I don’t want to rain on Tucker’s parade. He’s so excited about me getting to know his friends. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’d rather have a root canal than spend another minute trying to navigate the minefield of backhanded compliments and thinly veiled insults.

“I was just wondering…has your mother RSVP’d yet?” Tucker asks.

I feel my stomach clench. My mother. I’d almost forgotten.

“No, I haven’t heard from her,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s not coming. You know how she is—she’s not exactly the most reliable when it comes to these things.”

“I know,” he says, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on my skin. “But I also know how much it would mean to you to have her there.”

My mind flashes back to a conversation we had months ago, when we were first starting to plan the wedding. I had been agonizing over whether to even invite my mother, given our strained relationship.

“I just don’t know if I can handle the stress of having her there,” I had confessed to Tucker. “What if she gets drunk and causes a scene? What if she ruins everything?”

But Tucker had kept pressing me to include her. “Reese, honey, I know it’s scary, but I also know that you’ll regret it if you don’t at least give her the chance to be there for you on your big day.”

He had kissed my forehead, his voice soft and reassuring. I had to bite my tongue. It’s easy to be optimistic when you haven’t experienced the repercussions of an alcoholic mother. I couldn’t help but remember her showing up drunk at my school play, or stumbling to the school bus drop-off with smeared makeup, still wearing her clothes from the night before. I thought I’d escaped the embarrassment when I moved down south, but of course, she is still my mother.

“And if she does show up and things get tough,” he had continued, “I’ll be right there by your side. We’ll handle it together.”

How could I say no to that? I remember thinking. So, when the gilded invitations went out, I included one for my mother.

Now, sitting here in the living room with the wedding just days away, I wonder if I made the right decision. I know that he’s right, that I would probably regret not extending the invitation to my mother.

Probably.

“You’re right,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I’m glad I invited her, even if she doesn’t end up coming. At least I know I did everything I could to include her.”

Tucker smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s my girl,” he says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my lips. “At the end of the day, all that matters is that we’re getting married. The rest is just details.” He kisses me again, but this time his kiss feels deeper, hungrier. Just as his hand starts to creep up my thigh, the shrill ring of his phone shatters the moment.

Tucker sighs, pulling away. “Damn it,” he says, glancing at the screen. “It’s one of my suppliers. I’ve been trying to track down this shipment for weeks. Just give me a couple of minutes.”

I nod, trying to hide my disappointment. Right, work. Again.

He makes his way down the hall to his home office. I sigh, getting up from the couch and making my way into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich.

It’s not the first time his work has interrupted our alone time. I doubt it’ll be the last.