Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I stand frozen in the middle of my office, staring at my phone while the air conditioning hums loudly in the background. I wait a beat too long and the screen suddenly goes dark. I swipe it open again and quickly navigate to my messages. When I do, the message that was there just a moment ago is gone. I try to click through the profile, looking for Snapper…but I can’t remember the numbers and nothing under that name comes up.

What in the world? Did I just imagine that?

I shake my head. No, I didn’t imagine it. Someone sent me a message saying Tucker is a murderer, of all things. Who would send a message like that? More importantly , why?

I raise my eyes to the front door where Cara Dawson left about thirty minutes ago. Could she have sent this message? I have her phone number on the invoice. Maybe I should call her. I shuffle through a stack of papers and pull out the invoice for the baby shower cookie order. I run my fingers over the page until I pinpoint her phone number.

I start punching her number into my phone. And then I stop, my thumb suspended over the call button. What am I doing? If I call Cara Dawson and ask her if she sent me a message saying Tucker’s a murderer, she’s going to think I’ve lost my mind. And I’m sure she’ll be happy to share that little piece of gossip with everyone around town.

I rub my temples. No, I need to figure this out on my own . Maybe this whole wedding is getting to me and I’m losing my mind.

I think back to everything I know about Charlotte’s disappearance, every hushed whisper that has followed me since the day Tucker and I got together. Where did Charlotte go? I heard she ran away with a boat captain. Did you know she was taking French lessons? I bet she flew off to the south of France. Well, I heard she had a mental breakdown and had to be put in an institution. Then they’d turn to Tucker. Poor Tucker. I heard he lost a small fortune on that wedding.

People don’t think I can hear them whispering about me, but I can. And it’s infuriating. After the whispers stop, they usually give me a side-eye, like somehow I’m “in the know” on the whole situation. Which I am obviously not.

I suppose Mrs. Spencer must know what happened, as I’m sure she’s been in touch with her daughter. I wish she would just set the record straight and cut through all the mystery surrounding what happened that day. That would make my life so much easier.

But if she hasn’t come forward by now and told the truth, I doubt she ever will.

I shake my head. I’ve tried so hard to push it all aside, to focus on the future and the love that Tucker and I share. But clearly I’m not doing myself any favors. Every time I try to bury what happened between the two of them, fate seems to step in and send me a sign. Or in this case, a text message.

I mean, who sends a message like that?

Tucker is not a murderer. The very idea is ludicrous, like something out of a poorly plotted movie. The man who rubs my feet after a long day or sends me flowers “just because” is not someone who would murder his fiancée. People here know Tucker. He’s part of the community, a member of every local society. And someone whom everyone knows as an upstanding citizen doesn’t even attempt to commit murder, much less get away with it.

I lean heavily against my desk, my legs suddenly weak beneath me. I wish everyone would just stop bringing up Charlotte, stop dredging up the painful memories and unanswered questions that have haunted me for so long.

I stare at my phone for a few seconds longer.

What am I going to do?

As if on cue, another message appears on Snaptalk. This time it’s from Zach.

How are you holding up? Do you need anything?

He has no idea. Or maybe he does.

Zach was always pretty intuitive. He always seemed to know what was going on in my head. I bite my lip, torn between the desire to confide in someone and the fear of betraying Tucker’s trust. But as I stare at Zach’s message, I can’t shake the feeling that he might be the only person who can truly understand what I’m going through. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to call him.

Just as I pull my fingers into place to send him a message in return, I hear the door open at the front of the shop. Maybe Cara Dawson has come back to get a copy of her receipt and I can casually ask her more questions about Charlotte. I slide my phone back into my pocket and head toward the front. When I arrive behind the counter, I’m surprised to see Tucker himself striding into the shop, a boyish grin on his face.

“There’s my beautiful bride-to-be!” he exclaims, swooping around the counter and pulling me in for a kiss. “Everything okay?” He pulls back with a concerned expression on his face.

“Yes, of course. Just busy.”

He runs his hands through my hair. “I thought I’d surprise you with lunch. Can you get away for an hour?”

I reflexively glance back at the table behind me filled with rows of pastries. And then back at him. Truthfully? No. But I have a hard time refusing my handsome fiancé anything. Besides, maybe it’s time I talk to him about everything that’s been going on.

“Sure,” I say.

“Wonderful,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. “By the way, I just ran into Cara Dawson shopping down the street. She told me she just picked up a few dozen beautiful cookies from your shop for her baby shower.”

“Yes, she was very sweet,” I say. Even though I know the answer to my next question, I can’t resist testing Tucker a bit. “How did you know her?”

“Oh, you know, just friends of friends,” he says. A flicker of something crosses his eyes and then passes.

I stare at him for a moment, raising my eyebrows. Friends of friends? I know exactly how he knows Cara Dawson. I reflexively take a step back. It’s not a lie, per se, but an omission of the truth. She was a friend of Charlotte’s . Why wouldn’t he admit that? A little seed of doubt is planted in my mind.

I know that bringing up Charlotte will only make him angry. The last thing I need to do is get in a fight with my fiancé just a few days before our wedding, especially over his ex.

But I can’t help myself.

“Actually, she told me she was a friend of Charlotte’s,” I say carefully, watching Tucker’s reaction like a hawk, “and that Charlotte was a bridesmaid in her wedding.”

Tucker’s face hardens, his eyes narrowing as he pulls away from me.

“Charlotte?” he repeats, his voice tight. “Why would you bring her up, Reese? You know how much it hurts me to talk about her.”

A tiny stab of guilt gnaws at me, mixed with a growing sense of unease. I’m sure it was painful, standing at the altar in front of hundreds of friends and family, wondering where she was. I can’t even imagine the humiliation he must have felt, the way his heart must have dropped into his stomach as the minutes ticked by and the realization slowly dawned on him that she wasn’t coming. He must have felt like a fool, standing there in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, a hopeful smile plastered on his face even as the whispers and murmurs began to ripple through the crowd. I can picture him ducking out of the church, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, trying to avoid the pitying stares and the well-meaning condolences.

It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to talk about it. The wounds of that day must still be raw, even after all this time. And part of me can’t blame him for wanting to keep that pain locked away, for not wanting to relive the most devastating moment of his life.

At the same time, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on. Especially when I get messages like the one I received today, or at least I think I received today…

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, looking down at my flour-dusted hands. “I just thought it was strange, that’s all. That she felt the need to let me know she was a friend of Charlotte’s.”

Tucker sighs heavily, his face softening. He cups my shoulders in his hands.

“Look, Reese, I know you’re stressed about the wedding and the gala. But please, can we just focus on us? On our future together? I don’t want to dwell on the past anymore.”

I nod slowly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. “You’re right,” I say, forcing a brittle smile. “I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s just enjoy our lunch.”

“Thank you.” He pulls me in for a hug. I briefly melt into his arms, letting myself feel the warmth of his body and the musky scent of his cologne. I stay there for almost a full minute.

“Let me grab my purse in the back,” I say, finally slipping away from him.

As I walk back to the office to snag my purse, I pull out my phone. I stare at the screen for a split second, looking at Zach’s message.

The truth is, I’m not okay. Tucker has shut me down again, leaving me with no one I can talk to. Except Zach. So against my better judgment, I shoot him a message.

Actually it’s been a rough day. Would you be free to grab coffee at Marla’s this afternoon?

The answer is swift.

Of course. 3pm?

I give his message the thumbs-up before squeezing my phone back into my purse. I swipe on some lip gloss before heading back out to the bakery where Tucker is waiting. But as I let him lead me out of the bakery, his hand warm and solid in mine, I can’t shake the nagging sense that everything is about to come crashing down around me.