Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A few moments later, Tucker drops my hand and reaches for the fork at his place setting. He smooths his tuxedo jacket and adjusts his bow tie. The sun has nearly set, casting a warm, golden glow across the outdoor space. Spanish moss sways gently from ancient oak branches overhead, mimicking the sway of the conversations below. Tucker takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he gently taps his champagne glass.

“Can I have your attention, please?” The murmurs around the table settle back into silence. I steal a quick look at my mother, who remains silent, her eyes focused on the glass in front of her. Everyone else is now looking to Tucker.

“I just want to say how blessed I am to have everyone here tonight, celebrating with us.” His voice is strong and steady as he speaks. “I think Reese has already done a beautiful job of communicating how we feel, so I can only echo her words by saying thank you. Each of you mean so much to me, and I’m grateful you’re here to celebrate this important moment in my life.”

He shifts his weight, and raises his glass a bit higher. “But most of all, I’m blessed to have such an amazing fiancée by my side. Reese, you are the love of my life, and I can’t wait to start our forever together. Cheers.”

He turns to me, his eyes shining, and I feel my heart swell. He leans in to kiss me at the cheers of the crowd. In this moment, I’m overwhelmed by gratitude for Tucker’s unwavering support. He’s stood by me through Mom’s social blunders, forgiven my lie about working with Zach, and cleaned up my shop after the break-in, even though I’m sure he was angry.

Every time I think he’s going to turn on me for a mistake I’ve made, he proves otherwise. Despite the rocky path we’ve navigated, Tucker’s love remains constant. And maybe that’s what I’ve always loved about him. He’s a true ally—someone who sees beyond my flaws and loves me unconditionally.

After we all sit down and the toast is complete, the dessert portion of the dinner continues, the sweet aroma of chocolate and vanilla wafting through the air. Tucker begins chatting with his dad, who is on the other side of us in the seating arrangement. I look down the table and notice my mother getting up to use the restroom.

I seize the opportunity to speak with her. I get up from my seat, murmuring a word to Tucker before following her to the bathroom. I don’t see her at first. She must be in one of the stalls, so I wait silently until she’s finished, my heart pounding in my chest.

Yes, I managed to deflect her mistake about Zach, convincing everyone she’s suffering from mental lapses. But a nagging doubt lingers. Did she really mix up names, or was this a calculated move? A part of me can’t shake the feeling that this was deliberate—her way of punishing me for my prolonged absence.

She steps out of the stall and the two of us make eye contact.

“Oh hello, dear,” she says, her glassy eyes fixing on mine. “What a lovely dinner this has been. Thank you again for including me.” Her words come out contorted and slurred. She stumbles almost imperceptibly as she brushes past me to wash her hands. I watch her hand shake as she reaches for a towel.

If she wasn’t fully drunk during her speech, she certainly is now.

“Mother,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “How could you?”

She freezes, her hands dripping with water, and looks at me. “What do you mean? I said congratulations to you and Tucker, didn’t I?”

“No, Mom, you congratulated me and Zach. Don’t you remember?”

Her face is blank. “No,” she says, nodding softly.

The open look of innocence and confusion on her face stops me in my tracks. I bite my lip. Even though my speech about her memory issues was fabricated, it might actually be true. My mother really does seem confused, her eyes clouded with uncertainty. I feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe it was an honest mistake after all.

“Oh no, did I mess up your dinner?” she says. “Reese, I’m so sorry.”

I tip my head to the side, studying her. She seems suddenly small, almost helpless. I’ve read that alcoholism can bring on early onset dementia. I guess I’ve been so busy I never thought to check on her.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say softly, my anger dissipating slightly. “Just keep in mind in the future his name is Tucker, okay?”

“Okay,” she says quietly, almost as if a child has been scolded, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m sorry, Reese. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

I sigh, taking in her slightly disheveled appearance and the way she sways on her feet. “You look like you’ve had a little too much to drink. Would you like to have someone take you back to the hotel?”

My mother, who is ever proud and never wants to admit defeat, gives a small nod, her eyes downcast. “Actually, I am feeling rather tired. Yes, that would be lovely. Can you call me a driver?”

“Of course.” I wrap my arms around my mother and escort her to the front of the gallery, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stuffiness inside. Although it’s the last thing I want to think about right now, getting care for my mother might be my next priority after this wedding is over.

I signal one of the drivers that Tucker has assembled for the party and give them the address of the hotel. I tuck my mother into the backseat of the sleek black car, turn on my heel, and prepare to return to the rehearsal dinner, my heart feeling lighter with each step.

I now have one less thing to worry about. For now, anyway.

As I round the corner of the building, the sound of hushed whispers stops me in my tracks. I instantly recognize Tucker’s voice, low and urgent, but the other voice is unfamiliar—a man with a heavy accent.

I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but something about the tension in their voices, the furtive glances they cast around the deserted hallway, roots me to the spot. I press myself against the wall, straining to catch their words over the distant clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversation from the reception.

“Listen, Tucker,” the man hisses, his voice thick with a Russian accent. “We had a deal. You promised me the shipment would be here by now, no questions asked.”

Tucker’s reply is muffled, but I can hear an edge in his voice. “I know, Sergei. But there were complications. The customs agents were sniffing around, asking too many questions. I had to lie low for a while, let things cool off.”

Sergei scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain. “Excuses. That’s all I ever hear from you, Tucker. Excuses and empty promises. Do you have any idea how much money I’m losing every day those goods sit in some warehouse, gathering dust?”

There’s a pause, a heavy silence that seems to stretch on for an eternity. When Tucker speaks again, his voice is quiet but firm. “I’ll make it right, Sergei. I always do. Just give me a little more time.”

“Time?” he spits, his voice rising in anger. “I’ve given you nothing but time, Tucker. And what do I have to show for it? A bunch of cheap knockoffs that I can’t move, and a sea of angry customers breathing down my neck.”

Cheap knockoffs? What is he talking about?

But before I can even begin to process their conversation, Sergei is speaking again. “You have one week, Tucker. One week to get me those goods, or else.”

“Or else what?”

Sergei laughs, a harsh, mirthless sound that jangles my nerves. “Or else I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. And trust me, you don’t want to know what that means.”

I hear the sound of footsteps receding down the hall, the slam of a door that seems to echo like a gunshot in the stillness. I stand there for a long moment, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind spinning with a thousand questions.

What has Tucker gotten himself into?