Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THREE DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING

The next day, I throw myself into my work at the shop, channeling all of my energy into finalizing the gala order. Apparently Charlie is a man of action rather than words, because he did manage to fix the walk-in cooler, allowing me to carefully load all the finished pastries inside for Saturday’s delivery.

With Bernie taking the lead on my wedding cake, I find myself with a rare bit of breathing room. In fact, the only thing left to do is the invoicing, a task that I usually dread but now feels like a welcome distraction. I spend most of the day doing just that and, of course, trying to avoid thinking about the wedding, Charlotte, Zach, and Monica.

It works, for the most part.

Tucker has his bachelor party tonight with the boys at a bourbon distillery in downtown Charleston, leaving me to my own devices. Which is really the last thing I want right now. I don’t want to be alone and have more time to stew over everything that’s going on.

I need to stay busy.

So, instead of sitting at home by myself, I invite Bernie over to drink champagne, eat tapas, and binge-watch the newest season of Chopped . It should be enough to keep my mind off things.

I retrieve a bottle of champagne from the wine chiller and uncork it with a satisfying pop. I carefully pour two glasses. As I watch the bubbles float up to the top of my champagne glass, I’m torn. This should be a celebration—I’m about to pull off the biggest weekend of events Couture Cakes has ever had. Yet, a gnawing sense of dread tugs at me.

Before I can spiral into another loop of negative thoughts, the doorbell rings. I take a deep breath, pick up the champagne glasses, and stride toward the front entry, forcing a smile.

“Bernie, I’m so happy you made it,” I say, swinging open the door and handing her a glass.

“Now that’s the way to kick off the night.” She grins. Bernie’s wearing a black lounge set and sneakers, her hair down in loose, pretty waves. I can’t remember the last time I saw her hair like that. Usually, we’ve both got our hair pulled back in a hairnet, making sure no stray hairs end up in someone’s dessert.

It’s nice to see her let her hair down, literally and figuratively. We spend so much time being super professional, it’s easy to forget we’re friends too, not just co-workers. And right now, a friend is exactly what I need. I feel a few knots in my shoulders ease.

The two of us walk into the kitchen, champagne flutes in hand. We fill our plates with an assortment of tapas I ordered from a local restaurant. I breathe in the delicious smells and for a moment, I forget about all the thoughts that have been following me around like a dark cloud.

Once our plates are full, we settle in the living room where I grab the remote to flip on the TV. I’ve cued up our favorite cooking challenge show, Chopped . As the first episode begins, Bernie and I start poking fun at the contestants.

“Oh, look at that chef’s face when he opened his basket!” Bernie exclaims, pointing at the screen. “It’s like he just found out his secret ingredient is roadkill!”

I burst out laughing, nearly spilling my champagne. “Honestly, I don’t know how they come up with this stuff. If someone handed me a basket full of gummy worms and fish sauce, I think I’d just walk right out the door.”

“Not me,” Bernie says, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’d whip up a gummy worm ceviche with a fish sauce foam, just to see the look on the judges’ faces.”

“You’d win that round for sure,” I say.

By the time the first episode ends, my face hurts from laughing so much. The two of us agree it’s time for a refill of champagne. We hop up from the couch and amble into the kitchen.

“Your kitchen is fabulous,” Bernie says, looking around the room.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

But even as the words leave my lips, I feel a twinge of discomfort. It is beautiful, but all I see in the brass cabinet knobs and intricately patterned backsplash is the woman who lived here first.

“So, are you feeling excited about the wedding?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. “And nervous.”

“You have nothing to be nervous about. I’m sure Elsa has everything planned down to the second.”

“Oh, she does,” I say, rolling my eyes with a wry smile.

Elsa Patterson, the wedding planner extraordinaire, flew in from New York to orchestrate our big day. At first, I was a bit hesitant about the idea of having someone else plan my wedding. I mean, isn’t that supposed to be the bride’s job? But when I realized how big of a deal having a large, extravagant wedding was to Tucker, I was glad that Elsa had stepped in to take over.

“Speaking of the wedding, I think I’ll have the wedding cake ready for you to look at tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Yup,” she says with a wink. “Luckily for us, I didn’t have to use any gummy worms or roadkill. It’s all flour, sugar, and butter.”

“What a relief,” I chuckle, feeling a little buzz from my wine. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Despite all the heaviness that has been surrounding me the last couple of days, I do feel a bit of a flutter of excitement about the cake. Even though I’ve done hundreds of wedding cakes, there is still a little part of me that can’t wait for my little girl dreams to become reality. I refill both of our glasses with champagne, emptying out the bottle.

“Why don’t you go in and get the next episode started,” I say, walking toward the wine cooler in the butler’s pantry. “I’m going to put another bottle on ice for us.”

“Sounds perfect,” says Bernie.

I pull out a bottle of champagne and drop it in a bucket of ice. No sooner has Bernie disappeared than my phone starts to buzz on the table. Holding my glass, I pick it up and make my way toward the living room. It’s most likely a text from Tucker, updating me on his eventful night. But when I unlock my phone, I realize it’s a message from Snaptalk.

My heart begins to beat a bit faster. I stop in the hallway and read the message, this time from a new profile called Snapper2345.

Has Tucker told you about his little side business yet? You’re not marrying who you think you are. Only three days left to call off the wedding, or else.

The cold plastic of the phone slips slightly in my grasp. I set down my glass on a table in the hall and quickly type a message back.

Who is this?

As soon as I hit send, the message vanishes, leaving me to stare at a blank screen. I desperately search for the username Snapper2345 but nothing comes up.

How could they delete their profile so quickly?

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm myself. The phone feels suddenly heavy in my hand, like a lead weight. I continue staring at it for a few more minutes, half expecting it to light up again with another message. But the screen stays dark.

What side business? And who in the world is sending these messages? I’m so frustrated I feel like I could punch a hole in the wall.

Bernie’s going to wonder what’s taking me so long. I slip my phone back into my pocket. I can’t let her see me like this. As much as I’d like to spend the next hour combing through Snaptalk for a clue, I know I can’t leave her waiting. I take another deep breath, squaring my shoulders and forcing a smile onto my face. It feels brittle and false, like a mask that doesn’t quite fit, but it’s the best I can do in the moment.

I walk back into the living room, the plush carpet cushioning my footsteps. Bernie looks up, her face quickly changing from a smile to concern.

“Everything okay, Reese? You look a little pale.”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.” I force a smile and steady my voice. “I just got a message from Tucker. I think he might be a little bit drunk already.”

Bernie smiles. “Boys will be boys.”

I settle in next to Bernie on the couch, trying to focus on the TV screen in front of us. But even as the familiar theme music of Chopped fills the room, my mind is elsewhere, spinning with a thousand unanswered questions.

Why would someone be sending these messages?

I can’t wrap my head around it, can’t make sense of the twisted logic that would drive someone to do something like this. Zach’s words about Charlotte from earlier echo in my mind. If she wanted to warn me about something, she could just come and tell me about it in person. He’s right, of course—there’s no reason to send some cryptic messages, other than just to drive me mad.

So if it’s not her, then who?

Someone doesn’t want me to marry Tucker, obviously. Or at the very least, they want to make my life a living hell. But who would do something like that?

Is it someone from his past, some scorned lover or bitter enemy who can’t bear to see him happy with someone else? Or is it someone closer to home, someone who knows me, who has seen the cracks and fissures in our relationship and is determined to exploit them?

It’s like I’m going crazy, like I’m trapped in some kind of waking nightmare where nothing makes sense and everyone is a suspect. I can feel the paranoia creeping in, the sense that I shouldn’t trust anyone.

As I glance over at Bernie, sitting next to me, happily lost in watching the show, I realize I’m probably letting my imagination run a little wild. The three glasses of champagne I’ve had don’t help either. I try to push the doubts aside, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m missing.

We finish a few more episodes and get about one glass each into the next bottle when Bernie announces she’s tired and doesn’t want to be out too late since she has an early day tomorrow. I’m relieved, since I’ve been holding it together for the last hour trying not to freak out about the latest message.

I walk her to the door, close it behind her, and put my back up against the other side. What am I going to do about these messages? I have to do something.

I clean the kitchen, finishing off the last of the bottle of wine, and then sit at the large marble island to stew over my situation. This doesn’t help. I try to distract myself by scrolling through Pinterest wedding cakes (one of my favorite pastimes), but that doesn’t do the trick either. About an hour later, I hear the door open.

Tucker’s home, and it’s time we have a talk.