Chapter 31
I DON’T KNOW HOW long I lie awake after that conversation with Cara, staring at the ceiling and replaying everything she said. At some point, exhaustion finally drags me under.
The house is still, holding its breath before the big day. Tiptoeing down the stairs, I make myself a cup of tea, grab a throw blanket from the couch, and step outside.
The storm has washed everything clean. The air is cool and bright, the grass sparkling, still damp with rain. The gazebo—sturdy, sanded, gleaming—stands proudly on the west side of the lawn.
I cross over to it and sit on the steps, tucking the blanket around my shoulders.
I remember the years and years of sitting in this very spot, daydreaming about what my life would one day look like. My fairy tale. It all seemed possible, yet a little shapeless, unpindownable, like clouds floating over the lake.
Sitting out here now, it all feels so different.
Instead of magic and mystery and grandness, I feel instead how small and intimate the gazebo is.
I can see the handiwork in the beams and the trellises that goes back generations.
Watching Nate work on its repairs all week has reminded me that it’s just a pretty little human construct, like everything else.
Someone had to envision it, someone had to build it.
And no matter how perfect it once was, it’s going to need continued work.
No fairy tale. Just dedication. Time. Commitment.
Behind me, a door opens. Then another. Voices, footsteps, the first flurry of the morning.
And just like that, wedding day begins.
THE MORNING’S MESSY, LOUD, buzzing with activity. I find Linney in the kitchen, still in pajamas but already scrolling through her to-do list. “Okay, first: breakfast. We’ve got bagels, fruit, and yogurt. We’ve got OJ for mimosas, we’ve got—oh no.”
She stops dead in front of the fridge.
“What?” I ask, coming up beside her.
She opens the door, and the answer hits us like a wall: the sour smell of spoiled milk and something worse. A puddle of melted frosting glistens on the bottom shelf.
Mom peers over Linney’s shoulder and lets out a small gasp. “The cake.”
“The cake,” I echo, as if saying it might somehow un-melt it back into existence.
The once-perfect three-tier strawberry shortcake—Mom’s masterpiece—is now a sad, slumped ruin. One side has caved completely, frosting drooping like wet snow.
For a heartbeat, no one says anything. Then Cara appears in the doorway, hair up in curlers, wearing an oversize robe. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the scene—and then, to my surprise, she starts laughing.
Not a polite giggle. Full-on, belly-deep laughter. The kind that brings out a whole new side to her personality—or at least, one I hadn’t seen. Loose, messy, real Cara.
Mom’s head snaps toward her, but the scolding doesn’t come. Instead, her lips twitch—and then she’s laughing too.
It’s contagious. Linney joins in next, and before I know it, I’m doubled over against the counter, the tension of the last twenty-four hours cracking like thin ice.
Anna Carol toddles into the room and surveys the white-and-pink, cakey mess with big eyes. “Can we make cupcakes instead?” she asks hopefully.
Cara wipes her eyes. “That actually sounds… perfect.” She looks at Mom and smiles, something soft passing between them.
BY NOON, WEDDING DAY operations are moving along like a dynamic, well-oiled machine.
Mom is fully in her element, directing the scene like she was born for this.
She’s already made two batches of cupcakes, with white frosting and strawberries on top.
It’s just enough to be sweet, classy, and very Cara.
She has one more batch to go, and we’ll be all set.
Cooper and his groomsmen set up thirty white folding chairs on the lawn that we bought in bulk from Lowe’s, their sneakers sinking into the grass, still pretty damp from last night’s storm. Later, we’ll use the same chairs for the reception.
The sun’s burned off the dew, and it is going to be a perfect Georgia summer day.
William proudly takes on the task of gathering fallen branches from the storm and tossing them into a wheelbarrow, pushed by Dad.
Nate and Mr. Lancolm roll the round tables out from the garage and start arranging them up by the deck where the reception dinner will take place.
I’m actually glad Dad cleaned out the garage, because he found some extra folding tables we’ve used in the past for various bake sales and whatnot.
With a couple of Mom’s nice linen tablecloths, they’ll be transformed.
Linney and I follow in their wake, placing the bud vase centerpieces.
Honestly, the farm animals look pretty cute, once the flowers are in them. They add a certain je ne sais quoi.
Nate and I only cross paths a few times—coming face-to-face in the garage when we’re each sent by our dads to find outdoor extension cords, squeezing by each other in the kitchen as the barbecue caterers set up—but mostly we keep a safe distance.
Without discussing it, it’s like we’ve agreed that today is about Cooper and Cara, not about us.
We can bottle up our feelings, tuck them behind polite smiles, and keep moving forward. Certainly a skill I’ve got down by now, but I’m astonished he has it too. Or maybe he really just doesn’t care.
When it’s time to get ready, the men are banished to Camp Bennet to put on their suits and ties, and the chaos in our house feels like a movie montage.
Music playing, hair dryers humming, someone shouting for bobby pins from upstairs.
Every surface is covered: curling irons, makeup bags, mismatched jewelry boxes, stray ribbons.
The air smells like citrus body spray and vanilla frosting.
Cara had told us to pick anything we wanted to wear, but there was no universe where Mom was going to allow anyone to go rogue. We’re all in coordinating blue dresses. Matching, but not matchy.
I put on the pale periwinkle silk dress I chose from LuAnne’s—it’s long but lightweight and effortless—just a shade lighter than the one Linney picked out.
Mom’s also wearing a dress she bought there, hers a slightly more slate-blue color.
Together, we all look like a floating cloud of hydrangeas, blending in with the shades of blue Cara’s bridesmaids all brought—a few of them in floral numbers that complement the palette.
At Cara’s request, the Bennet women gather in Mom’s sewing room, which has become a de facto bridal suite.
When I see Cara in the sleek, structured dress from LuAnne’s, so simple yet so stunning, her own subtle jewelry twinkling in the sunlight, her hair cascading in perfect waves, I am struck by emotions I didn’t expect.
A surprising feeling of hope—she’s getting her Happily Ever After.
Maybe one day I’ll get mine too. There’s enough space in this family for the both of us.
The delicate yet simple LuAnne’s veil is pulled back from her face and hangs low, covering the length of her hair.
“Before I cry and ruin my makeup,” she says to me, Mom, and Linney, “I have something for each of you.”
From a velvet pouch, she produces three necklaces—each with her signature little strawberry designs, though they vary, some with leaves wrapping further up the chain and some more spare.
“My mother loved strawberries. The perfect summer strawberry was her Holy Grail, kind of like tomatoes are for you, Joan,” she says to my mom, who sniffles and dabs her eyes.
“When she died, we planted strawberry seeds around her grave. It’s why I incorporated them into my original design launch, kind of like a signature.
So with these, I want you to have a little piece of me and my family. ”
Her story hits me square in the chest, and suddenly, her designs take on a whole other dimension of meaning and beauty as I look at them.
Linney starts crying, which makes my mom cry, too, and we take turns clasping on the necklaces.
Then we all go in for a hug. Surrounded by all these female, perfumy smells, I feel such a powerful sense of home.
It’s only as I pull away from the group that I hear a faint tearing sound and—my neck catches. I freeze. Oh my god. The new necklace has caught on her veil.
“Oh no,” Cara whispers.
Mom and Linney rush over, carefully disentangling me from the veil, but the damage has been done. There’s a long, noticeable rip right down the center.
“Cara, I’m so sorry!”
She waves me off. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a little—” She unpins the veil from her hair, inspecting the tear. “Okay, maybe not that little.”
The guilt burns hot and instant. “Mom, is there any way to fix it?” I look at her hopefully, but she looks distraught as she takes the veil into her hands.
And even with my limited sewing knowledge, it’s clear: Any attempts to stitch together the delicate gauzy fabric would likely result in a Frankenstein-esque scar.
Cara puts a hand on my shoulder, trying to be gracious but clearly crestfallen. “It’s fine, Nikki. I don’t need one.”
“But—the initials!” Mom says, holding the veil and still trying to figure out what to do with it.
“Wait! I’ll be right back.”
I hurry down the hall, past Cooper’s room, toward the pull cord in the ceiling. The attic ladder unfolds with a groan, releasing a gust of warm, dusty air.
The attic is the one part of our home that’s not up to Mom’s pristine standards.
I move between disintegrating cardboard and plastic tubs, past a disassembled baby crib with chipping paint.
Beside it is splintery rocking chair I remember Meema sitting in.
It would take days if not weeks to sort through it all.
I nudge aside a box labeled LINNEY SCHOOL, then PETE FOOTBALL, then finally find one with my own handwriting across the top, the loopy letters familiar as my own reflection.
NIKKI’S WEDDING BOX
I kneel beside it, brushing my fingers over the Sharpie-bleeding label, and lift the lid.