Sweet Little Lies

Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“Mother,” I say. “I—uh—didn’t know you were joining us.”

“Don’t stutter, dear. It’s unattractive,” she says, waving me off with her freshly manicured hand. My cheeks burn slightly. The large diamond on her ring finger catches the light, casting tiny rainbows across the room. Even after Father died nearly ten years ago, she still wears it every day. “I just wanted to pop in and see how my favorite couple are doing with their cake tasting.”

She holds out her hands to Tucker, her immaculately styled blonde hair not moving an inch as she leans in. “So good to see you, my dear,” she says, air-kissing him on each cheek. Tucker stiffens almost imperceptibly, but I know him well enough to sense his discomfort.

Reese, ever the gracious host, works her way around the table. “I’ll get another place setting for you, Mrs. Spencer,” she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

As soon as Reese leaves the room, the atmosphere shifts. The air feels thick with tension, the silence broken only by the delicate clink of my mother fingering a pink and gold teacup.

“Now, Charlotte, darling,” my mother begins, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I’ve been thinking about the floral arrangements for the reception. Don’t you think we should add some more orchids? They’re so elegant, and they would really elevate the whole affair.”

I can feel Tucker’s gaze boring into me, his jaw clenched tight. The orchids are nearly fifty dollars per head. We just discussed the budget the other night, and I know he’s already stretched thin with the expenses. The last thing we need is my mother adding more extravagant touches.

“Mother, I think the arrangements are lovely as they are,” I say carefully, trying to keep my tone light. “Tucker and I are happy with what we’ve chosen.”

My mother’s eyes narrow, her lips pursing in disapproval. “But surely, Tucker wants the best for his bride, don’t you, dear?” she says, turning her attention to him. “After all, you are the one paying for this little soirée.”

Tucker’s face flushes, his hand gripping his fork so tightly his knuckles turn white. I can practically feel the anger radiating off him, but he says nothing, just glares at me from across the table.

Even though it’s traditionally the bride’s family who bears the financial burden of the wedding, Tucker offered to pay. The proper Southern response should have been to deny his offer, but our situation is unique. My mother and I live off the Spencer family trust, money that has been passed down for generations. But when my father died, we made a shocking discovery—my father was terrible with money. Due to a string of risky investments, and just plain bad luck, the bulk of the estate was gone. We lived lavishly off my father’s life insurance policy for years, burning through our inheritance as if there was no limit. But there was a limit, a fact my mother woefully ignored.

Despite our dire situation, she continues spending with reckless abandon, as if money grows on peach trees. Her cavalier attitude infuriates me. “We are Spencers, dear, we deserve the very best,” she always proclaims, blind to the fact that her choices have brought us to the brink of ruin.

So when Tucker proposed, my mother saw an opportunity to get the financial help she needed—from my husband. She instructed me to keep our situation hush-hush until the ink has dried on our wedding certificate. I’ve done as she told me, although the guilt over hiding this from Tucker has been gnawing at me. But that isn’t the only reason—if Tucker knew how bad our finances are, I worry he might not go through with the wedding.

After the proposal, Tucker suddenly became more distant. I mostly ignored the coolness in his affection and doubled my efforts to be a better fiancée. It made things manageable between us. But the last few months? It’s like I’ve been walking on splintered glass. And each one of my mother’s demands brings with it a fresh crack in our relationship.

I recall the fight he and I had a few days ago, where things got heated. “Your mother needs to butt out of our wedding,” Tucker had said, his voice tight with frustration. “If she wants to add expenses to our wedding, she can pay for those additions herself.”

I tried to defend her, to explain that she just wanted the best for us, that asking her to pay would be offensive, making things more tense between us. Tucker wasn’t having it. “She wants the best for herself, Charlotte. Can’t you see that? Everything always has to be about her, about keeping up appearances.”

“And your parents aren’t doing the same? Trying to keep up appearances?”

This comment infuriated him, and we ended up sleeping in separate beds that night. Now, sitting here, with my mother’s expectations bearing down on us, I wonder if Tucker was right. It’s more than just her tastes and preferences dominating our lives. It’s about control, and I’m starting to think he sees it too.

I glance at Tucker, noticing the tightness around his jaw as my mother prattles on about floral arrangements. It’s the same look he had when she “suggested” we change our honeymoon destination, or when she casually mentioned she’d already picked out the preschool for our future children. Maybe that’s why he’s been pulling away from me, canceling dinner dates and staying late at the office. He sees a future where every decision is dominated by my mother.

Reese returns, breaking the uncomfortable silence with her bright chatter about the different cake flavors and fillings. But even as I smile and nod, pretending to be engrossed in the decision, I can’t shake the feeling of unease that settles in the pit of my stomach. I glance at Tucker, hoping to catch his eye, to share a moment of solidarity. But he’s staring down at his plate, his expression unreadable. I feel a pang of fear in my chest.

The rest of the tasting passes in a blur, my mind too consumed with the distance between Tucker and me to focus on anything else. I let Mother take the lead on sketching out the cake design with Reese, while Tucker and I sit back and watch. By the time we’re finished, I feel heavy with exhaustion, the faux smile causing my cheeks to ache.

“Well, this has been just lovely,” I say, my voice dripping with false sincerity as we gather our things to leave. “Thank you so much for your time, Reese. We’ll be in touch.”

We say goodbye to Mother, who makes a quick exit, saying something about a meeting for her new charity event. As we step out into the bright Somerville sunshine, Tucker’s hand rests lightly on the small of my back. He’s there next to me, touching me, but he might as well be a thousand miles away. And despite the smile I bear on my face, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that something’s finally broken between us.