Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hours later, I’m transformed. My makeup has been expertly applied and I’m wearing an ivory dress that is so soft it feels like liquid silk. Tucker surprised me with the dress earlier this week, along with a pair of teardrop pearl earrings.

The reflection in the mirror is hardly recognizable, and for a moment, I feel like an imposter in my own skin. Scrape away all the makeup and the elaborate hairstyle, and I’m just a plain Jane girl. But I know when Tucker and I stand at the head of the table tonight, it will look like we belong together. Tucker has never given me any indication that he has any expectations about how I’m supposed to look or whom I’m supposed to be—he’s always told me he loves me for whom I am. But I cannot deny the confidence instilled by the exquisite dress and impeccable styling.

I feel like I belong.

In the rush of getting ready for the rehearsal dinner, Tucker and I have barely had a moment to speak. I was hoping we’d have a few minutes to discuss the game plan to ensure my mother stays out of trouble, but all I managed to tell him was that she was here and that she might be getting a little drunk. I haven’t shared a lot of details about my upbringing with Tucker, other than just what he needs to know: It wasn’t great, it was rocky , and my mother was addicted to pain pills and alcohol. Of course, sending her to rehab over the years would help her for a while, but then she’d revert right back to her old ways.

As we go through the final preparations for the evening’s rehearsal dinner, I find myself feeling disappointed and frustrated that she still hasn’t arrived. Despite sending a driver to pick her up, she is nowhere in sight. I keep glancing over my shoulder, hoping to see her walking through the door, but each time I am met with disappointment. As we finish rehearsing the ceremony without her, I wonder what could be keeping her and if this is a sign of things to come.

Don’t get me wrong, I want my mother to be here, to be present and sober, to share in this moment with me. But deep down, I wish she weren’t here. With everything else that’s going on, it feels like the whole weekend is teetering on the edge of disaster. And my drunk mother has a way of tipping things toward chaos. I take a deep breath, pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind. Tonight is about celebrating the love Tucker and I share, and I refuse to let my mother’s struggles overshadow that.

The ceremony itself is quite simple. Since we don’t have any bridesmaids or groomsmen, the rehearsal is straightforward. We walk down the aisle together, hold hands, look into each other’s eyes as we recite our vows, and then exit. Honestly, rehearsals never made much sense to me. If you’ve been to a couple of weddings, you know what to expect. But I will still try to make the most of it and enjoy another delicious dinner with friends.

Well, Tucker’s friends anyway.

Tonight’s guest list includes around seventy-five people. For a moment, I considered just asking Tucker if we could get married here and now. All the important people in our lives are already here, so why not? It would be so much simpler than going through all the fuss tomorrow. But I quickly push that thought away. Of course I want to have the full wedding experience—walking down the aisle in a beautiful white dress and cutting into Bernie’s stunning cake. It’s every little girl’s dream, after all.

The Magnolia Plantation grounds are a sight to behold. Ancient oak trees, their branches adorned with delicate Spanish moss, stand like gentle giants, casting intricate shadows across the lush landscape. The air is filled with the intoxicating fragrance of gardenias and magnolias, their blossoms a pristine white against the vibrant green foliage. The plantation’s beauty is ethereal, as if plucked straight from a fairy tale.

Our rehearsal dinner takes place outdoors, where Elsa has orchestrated yet another flawless event. Long tables draped in crisp white tablecloths stretch out before us, adorned with organic arrangements that showcase a tasteful palette of white and pale green. It’s a far cry from the hog roasts that characterize rehearsal dinners back home in Tennessee. In fact, this setting rivals the most elegant weddings I’ve ever attended.

As I’m about to take my seat beside Tucker, I feel a hand gently touching the back of my arm. “Reese, darling, you look absolutely beautiful,” a familiar voice says. I turn around to face my mother, her presence catching me off guard amidst the picturesque surroundings.

Like me, she has the same fiery red hair, although hers is cropped to her shoulders. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and she looks older, more haggard. The sight almost takes my breath away. Her eyes are dull and slightly bloodshot, but she did manage to put some makeup on and is wearing a rather pretty blue cocktail dress that shimmers in the soft evening light.

“Hello, Mother,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

We embrace, and the scent of her perfume—lavender with a hint of vanilla—transports me. Suddenly, I’m twelve again, wearing my prized blue dress at my first piano recital. The auditorium buzzes with proud parents, but Mom’s seat remains empty. Later, I would learn she’d chosen a bottle of wine over my performance.

This memory floods me with conflicting emotions—the desperate need for approval, the sting of abandonment, her perpetual absence even when physically present. The familiar cocktail of love and disappointment tightens my chest. Almost involuntarily, I pull away from her embrace.

“Look at you, my dear. You are all grown up.” She brushes a long strand of hair over my shoulder, her touch soft and her eyes moist. For a moment, I really see her. Her face is open and earnest. “I’m so proud of you. You look absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you, Mom.” I feel my own eyes well up with tears. It’s like all the words I ever wanted to hear when I was a child. Tucker suddenly appears by my side.

“You must be Mrs. Montgomery,” he says, extending his hand.

She flicks a bit of red hair over her shoulder, raking her eyes up and down his frame. “What gave me away?”

“Mom, this is Tucker Harding, my fiancé.”

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she drawls, her voice dripping with charm. “Reese never mentioned how gorgeous you are.”

I expect him to blush, but he doesn’t miss a beat. I guess he’s probably used to women gushing over him for most of his life, but it’s hard not to feel a twinge of unease about the whole interaction.

“You are so kind, Mrs. Montgomery. I trust you’re enjoying your stay at the Charleston Place Hotel?”

“Oh yes, it’s absolutely beautiful. Thank you for putting me up.”

He reaches over and gives her a slight kiss on the cheek. Now she’s the one who’s blushing. “I’m so glad you could make it, Mrs. Montgomery. Excuse me, I have to speak with some of our other guests.”

As Tucker walks away, my mother turns to me, her eyes wide. “Oh my, Reese, he is so charming. And handsome too.” She lets her eyes float around the room. “And obviously rich,” she adds.

“I know, Mom, I know.” Some of the connection I felt earlier is now gone. She’s back to the version of herself I recognize from my childhood. “Thanks for coming,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.

“Of course, dear. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she assures me, patting my arm. “Now, I know you have a lot of guests to speak with. I don’t want to get in your way. I’m just going to go over to the bar and have one little drink.”

My heart sinks at her words, a familiar sense of dread washing over me. “Mom, please do not get drunk,” I plead, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Reese, listen, I am fine. Over the years, I’ve learned how to control myself,” she says, waving off my concern with a dismissive gesture.

I want to argue with her, but I decide it’s better not to cause a scene. “Okay, Mom, we’ll talk later,” I concede, watching helplessly as she walks away, the blue fabric of her dress floating in the warm evening breeze.

She says she’s going to have just one drink, but I know better. The sinking feeling in my stomach grows heavier with each step she takes toward the bar, and I can only hope that somehow, tonight will be different. But deep down, I know it won’t be. It never is.

About an hour later, the cocktail reception ends, and all of our guests settle into the long banquet tables for dinner. Elsa has planned an exquisite meal for us, starting with a course of smoked salmon and caviar, followed by a pear glaze salad and succulent lamb chops.

My mother has been seated about five seats down from me at the head table. I find myself glancing over at her every few minutes to see how she’s doing, my nerves on edge. At one point, I catch her gesturing to the bartender to bring her another glass of wine, her movements exaggerated and slightly unsteady. The way she’s slouching in her chair and the glassiness in her eyes tell me that she’s probably drunk by now. Great.

I try to focus on the conversations around me, the laughter and chatter of our guests filling the air, but my attention keeps drifting back to my mother. It’s hard not to worry about what she might do or say, the fear of her causing a scene gnawing at the pit of my stomach. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves, but the tension in my body refuses to dissipate.

As the evening progresses, I watch helplessly as my mother becomes more and more intoxicated, her words slurring together and her laughter becoming louder and more inappropriate. I can feel the eyes of our guests on her, the whispers and pointed looks making my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I want to go over to her, to tell her to stop, but I know it’s useless. She’s too far gone, lost in the haze of alcohol that has consumed her for as long as I can remember.

On the other hand, Tucker’s parents, Elaine and Charles Harding, are the epitome of Southern gentility. Elaine, with her expertly styled silver hair and string of heirloom pearls, exudes an air of refined elegance. Charles, tall and distinguished with a neatly trimmed beard, commands respect with his mere presence. They are the kind of couple that people whisper about in reverent tones, the pillars of Charleston society.

As they stand up to give their speech, I can feel the room collectively hold its breath. Elaine’s voice is soft and melodic, her words painting a picture of Tucker as a young boy—curious, kind-hearted, and always eager to lend a helping hand. She regales the crowd with tales of his childhood adventures, his academic achievements, and his unwavering loyalty to family and friends. And of course, how God gave them a miracle by allowing them to adopt such a beautiful soul.

Charles takes over, his baritone voice filled with pride as he speaks of Tucker’s successful career, his keen business acumen, and his dedication to carrying on the Harding legacy. While the sun sets behind him, he raises his glass, his eyes misty with emotion, and toasts to the bright future that lies ahead for his son and his new bride.

As the entire crowd erupts in applause, I glance at Tucker, catching a mix of joy and slight embarrassment on his face. He’s beaming, clearly touched by his father’s words, even as he ducks his head modestly. I feel a small pang of envy. What must it be like, to have parents who support you unconditionally, who celebrate your every triumph and cushion your every fall?

My gaze drifts to my own mother, seated at a table in the corner. She’s already on her third glass of wine, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glazed. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

So I sit there, my smile frozen on my face, my nerves stretched taut as a wire. And I pray that somehow, someway, we’ll make it through this night unscathed. Then my mother stands up with her glass in hand and says six words that nearly cause me to pass out.

“I’d like to make a toast.”