Chapter 16 Gracie
Five Weeks Before the Wedding
It’s eleven thirty on a rainy Tuesday night, and I should be asleep, but instead, I’m staring up at my ceiling in the dark, thinking about Jude.
Not productive or wise, especially after the things he said and didn’t say to me at the bar the other night, but I can’t seem to help it.
I spent the day following up with my ex-clients and was prepared to cry alongside them again.
But with every conversation, I was stunned to discover that each of them had managed to find gorgeous new venues to squeeze them in at the last moment.
When I asked them how they managed it, they all had the same answer: Jude Larkwood.
Apparently, Jude used his connections among the Rhode Island estate community to pull strings for all my former clients, securing them locations that usually book over a year or two in advance. I clutch my blankets to the center of my chest. Was he ever going to tell me?
I’ve been thinking of texting him all day, despite the awkward way we left things at the bar.
Not just because of what he did for my clients, but also because today is Agatha’s birthday.
My own heart has felt bruised since I woke up this morning, and I can only imagine what he’s feeling.
So many firsts are celebrated… first steps, first days of school, first anniversaries.
But there are also the firsts that follow the loss of a loved one.
Birthdays, holidays, and special moments that are quietly passed in pain as we tend to the missing pieces of our hearts, wishing they were still here.
The only sound in my room is the rain on my roof, but it seems to whisper ideas I should definitely ignore. Instead, I roll over and look at the dark outline of my phone on my bedside table. It’s so late. Texting now would be completely—
The screen lights up the room, stopping all my thoughts.
I know it’s probably Sofia ordering me to look at the full moon so that my inner goddess doesn’t shrivel, but that doesn’t stop me from lunging across my bed anyway.
But I lunge too hard, and instead of grabbing my phone, I manage to knock it off the table along with my latest romance novel.
Groaning, I haul myself over the bedside, legs tangling in my sheets, but stop moving when I see Jude’s name.
Stomach summersaulting, I swipe open his message, which turns out to be a picture of him and Agatha, both wearing the same kind of party hat he wore at her memorial.
It’s candid, with Agatha blowing out enough birthday candles to start a bonfire.
Jude, meanwhile, is captured reaching out a blurry hand to pull her silk scarf out of the way of the flames, terror etched across his handsome face.
I can’t help the laugh I let out, even as my nose and eyes begin to sting at the sight of Agatha in her element. Then a second text comes in.
Jude: Missing her.
My heart rises inside my chest until it’s blocking my throat.
Jude. Pulling myself back into bed, I start typing the words “me too,” but stop.
Bite my lip. The same feeling I had at Agatha’s memorial is churning in my chest—the need to be closer to him when the loss feels too big to bear alone.
He’s up, right? And talking is easier than texting, I reason.
Before I can second-guess myself, I call his number.
“Hey,” he says, sounding surprised when he picks up. His voice is low and hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in hours. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I miss her, too,” I interrupt, my heart beating far too fast for someone sitting in bed.
He’s quiet on the other end of the line. “Yeah?”
“I was about to text,” I admit. “It felt… I don’t know.
Weird to let the day pass without acknowledging her birthday?
” I say, rubbing a hand under my bangs. “I mean, I didn’t have a priceless photo of Agatha nearly setting fire to the entire Eastern Seaboard to share, but I was going to say something. ”
His chuckle is soft and exasperated. “You know she did that every year? Wore something highly flammable and dangly?”
“Just to keep you on your toes?”
“Or incinerate them. Hard to tell.”
I smile as I lie back down, tucking into my covers. “Are your man feet that horrific?”
“Unspeakable. They’ve made children cry.”
I laugh as the weight that’s been on my chest all day begins to lift. “Should I be concerned that you’re showing your bare feet to children?”
“Jesus, Gracie, no,” he says with a laugh. “I swim a little. Subjecting innocent strangers to my feet at the public pool is just collateral damage.”
“Will the horrors never cease?” I ask, even though my mind is now a slow-motion film of his broad chest and shoulders emerging from chlorinated water. “Tell me you don’t wear a Speedo, at least.”
I hear a rustle of bedsheets on the other end of the line before he says, “Leopard print.”
“Honestly, I think Agatha would approve,” I say, laughing again, and God, why is it so easy to talk to him?
How does he make me grin like this when I’ve been on the verge of tears all day?
After shutting me out of his decision about the estate (again), I told myself that I’d stop this kind of thing.
No more texting about Taco or anything that isn’t strictly wedding related.
But now I’ve called him, practically in the middle of the night, and the truth is, I don’t want to let go of this invisible tether between us.
Instead, I want to wrap myself in it and pull, until he’s so close that neither of us will have to face this pain alone again.
He’s silent for a long moment before saying, “Thanks for calling me, Gracie. Today was… shitty.”
His voice sounds different over the phone. Somehow farther away and more intimate at the same time. Cradling my phone a little closer, I say, “Same, except…”
“What?” he asks, and if I close my eyes, it’s almost like he’s lying right beside me in the dark. I know I shouldn’t picture it, but it’s so hard to resist the feeling of being less alone.
“You made my day a lot better than it could have been,” I admit.
“Did I?” he asks, his voice surprised but pleased.
“I called to check on my former clients whose weddings were canceled,” I explain. “They told me what you did for them.”
“Ah,” he says, and I can hear him shift his weight, like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “I didn’t realize you would follow up with them.”
“Of course I did, I’ve been worried sick about them.”
“Some of their weddings will need to be on weekdays, but—”
“It’s fine. More than fine. They’re over the moon, Jude. I can’t thank you enough,” I tell him, hoping he can hear how much I mean it.
He’s quiet again before saying, “It was the least I could do.” And even though he never expected me to find out, and even though the favors he pulled were for my clients, the way he says those words makes me feel like he did it just for me.
We’re both silent for so long, and the rain is so soothing in the pitch-dark, that I don’t realize I’m half-asleep until he wakes me with a soft, “Hey.”
“Mmm?”
“Did Henry ever stop by your place?”
I yawn and stretch my free arm above my head, but don’t open my eyes. “Yeah, he came by with the cottage paperwork a few days ago. I guess it’s officially mine now.”
“No, I mean more recently. Sunday.”
My eyebrows scrunch together as my sleep-fogged brain struggles to remember. “Sunday? I don’t know, I was at my mom’s house all day. Why? Does he have more paperwork for me?”
“No, nothing like that,” Jude says, and I hear the rustle of his sheets again. They sound nice, like they’d be crisp and cool around his large, warm body. My thighs press together and— “We were on a run, and he said he might stop by to say hi.”
“Oh,” I say, a little surprised as he interrupts my sleepy, wayward thoughts. “What a sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” he says stiffly. “Anyway, I should let you sleep.”
“And what about you?” I ask, unwilling to let him hang up just yet. “Shouldn’t your man feet get some beauty rest, too?”
“Unfortunately, they’re beyond help, and I’m still working.”
“You’re working in bed? Isn’t that a no-no?”
“How can you tell I’m in bed?”
I shrug a shoulder and hum a sound like I dunno.
“Just can.” I can also guess that he probably isn’t wearing his starched white button-up or any pants.
His dark hair is probably a mess, and he’s mostly likely wearing those hot librarian glasses.
I try not to linger on the image I’ve created, but it’s hard to shoo away when I’m this tired.
“What are you working on?” I whisper instead.
“You really want to know?”
I yawn again, my eyelids too heavy to lift anymore. “Mhmm. As long as it’s really boring.”
“Gracie, are you using me as a sound machine?” he chides.
“You have a really nice voice,” I say without thinking, too sleepy to care. “You could narrate romance novels.”
“Your reading material of choice.” It isn’t a question, and I vaguely wonder what else he noticed while he was in my cottage.
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” I say, pulling the covers almost completely over my head. “They could teach you a thing or two.”
“Why would I need romance novels when I have you in my life?” he asks softly, and there’s no sarcasm or annoyance in his tone.
“Having me as a friend isn’t enough, Jude,” I mumble, half asleep. “I’ll prove it to you.”
He doesn’t respond to this, and as the rain falls harder, I slip into the embrace of sleep, knowing he’s on the other side of my dreaming. Because that’s what I must be doing when I hear him quietly say, “You already have.”