Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING
“No peeking,” Bernie scolds as she shoves me out of the kitchen.
“Aw, c’mon, I just want a quick look,” I protest, trying to turn my head back into the room even as she keeps pushing me away. “Is everything rising evenly? Did you use enough baking soda?”
“You make it sound like I’ve never made a wedding cake before.” Bernie glares at me. “Now go out front. I already told you, you can see it once we get the first and second layers of buttercream on the cake. Don’t you want to be somewhat surprised for your wedding day?”
I roll my eyes. The truth is, no , I don’t want to be surprised. But if I push her any harder, she’ll think I don’t trust her. And I do trust Bernie. She’s extremely talented and just as capable of producing a perfectly executed wedding cake as I am.
“Fine, I’ll go,” I say, letting out a sigh. I turn my back on the kitchen and proceed to the front of the shop.
As a bakery owner, it’s not often that you have the chance to make your own wedding cake. Most people would assume I’d go all out with an extravagant creation, perhaps seven layers coated in gold leaf and pearls. But for me, the most romantic cakes are those that pay tribute to the golden era of weddings after World War II. A simple three-tiered white cake adorned with delicate pearls and fresh roses is what truly speaks to me—elegant and simple.
It also doesn’t hurt that opting for a simpler design on the cake allows me to focus on everything else I have going on this week.
With the museum gala just around the corner, we have set up an extra workstation in our small tasting room near the front of the shop. I stop in the doorway, leaning against the wall to survey the room. There are two long tables set up in the center. Every surface is covered with trays of meticulously crafted petit fours, delicate macarons, and artfully decorated cupcakes. The sweet aroma of vanilla and sugar hangs in the air.
I mentally run through my checklist of everything that must be completed before Saturday. The gold leaf accents on the petit fours need to be finished, the macarons measured so that each matches in size and shape. In keeping with the Under the Sea theme, I’ve created the perfect ombre effect on the cupcakes that transitions from deep blue to a pearly teal. Well, most of them are perfect. My shoulders fall as I notice a few that aren’t quite right. I’ll have to fix those later.
Once all the desserts are ready, I’ll need to package them securely for transport to the gala venue. I’ve rented a delivery truck that’s bigger than my first apartment, just to ensure that every last macaron and petit four arrives unscathed. And of course, this all has to happen while I’m elbow deep in hairspray and mascara, getting ready for my own trip down the aisle.
Thankfully, Bernie has volunteered to do the delivery with a friend of hers—earlier in the day so she can make it to the wedding in time to see me walk down the aisle.
It’s a lot. And it all has to be timed perfectly.
The sound of the front door opening pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up and see a very pregnant woman gliding through the front door. She is impeccably dressed, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek chignon and her designer handbag gleaming under the soft lights of the bakery.
“Reese Montgomery?”
“Yes,” I say, making my way to the front counter. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Cara Dawson. I’m here to pick up an order for a baby shower.”
“Of course, Mrs. Dawson, let me get those for you.”
“Please, call me Cara. Thank you.”
I rush to the back of the bakery and pull a set of pink-and-white-striped boxes from the shelf. Inside are five dozen cookies in diaper and rattle shapes, carefully decorated with white, blue, and silver royal icing.
When I step back up to the counter and place the packages in front of her, I can feel Cara’s eyes studying me. Something about her gaze makes my skin prickle.
“It’s a bit cold in here,” she says, rubbing her upper arms.
“Oh, yes, sorry about that. We have a big event we’re preparing for, and sugar melts quickly.”
“Hm,” she replies.
I point to the boxes. “Would you like to look at the cookies first?”
“Yes, of course,” she says. I slide the lid open and reveal the cookies inside.
“Oh, these are perfect!” she says, a smile creasing her eyes. She looks back up at me. “And thank you for putting them together so quickly.”
“My pleasure,” I say, genuinely pleased that she not only loves the cookies but acknowledges the fact that I had to rush last night to finish them.
I take her credit card and begin to ring up the order. The entire time, I feel her staring at me, like she has something to say. When I hand back her credit card, she clears her throat.
“Don’t you have a wedding this Saturday?”
I blush. “I do.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Tucker Harding, right?”
I nod. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, I am a friend of Charlotte’s.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. The urge to roll my eyes in annoyance is almost overwhelming. Of course she’s friends with Charlotte. It seems like everyone in this town—heck, probably everyone in the entire city of Charleston—has some connection to Tucker’s ex-fiancée.
“Small world,” I mutter, not really sure what to say. She reaches forward and begins to gather the boxes, balancing them above her pregnant belly. “Please, let me carry those out for you.”
“Oh no, I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
She turns away from me and begins to leave. I maneuver around the front counter and take a few quick strides to pass her before she makes it to the front door. I reach the door just as she approaches, my hand grasping the handle and pulling it open. She steps forward to pass me, her heels clicking on the polished wood floor, but something makes her pause.
When she turns to face me, her green eyes glint with a mixture of emotions I can’t quite decipher.
“You know, Charlotte called me in a panic two nights before her wedding to Tucker,” she says. “She told me she had something important to tell me about him, but she wanted to wait until she was sure.”
“Oh?” I manage to choke out, my heart hammering in my chest. Why is she telling me this?
She nods, her eyes narrowing. “She seemed upset, almost frightened. But before she could tell me more, she got another phone call and had to rush off.”
A tremor ripples through me as I process yet another unsettling piece of information about Tucker’s former fiancée. My mind races with a thousand questions. What was so important? Why did she have to make sure? Why was she upset?
I try to collect myself and keep calm, burying the questions that are running through my mind. Discussing Tucker’s ex with a customer is beyond inappropriate, even if she is the one who brought it up. I force a strained smile at Cara.
“Well, I’m sure whatever it was, it’s in the past now.”
Cara shrugs her shoulders. “That’s actually the last time I spoke to her. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
You have no idea.
“A little,” I say, my voice coming out in a squeak.
She hesitates for a moment longer, her gaze locked with mine as an uncomfortable silence fills the room. In that brief moment, it’s like I can see the secrets swirling behind her eyes. I want to reach out, to grab her by the shoulders and demand that she tell me everything she knows about Charlotte’s disappearance.
But I don’t. Because as much as I’m desperate for answers, I barely know this woman. And let’s be honest, the only person I should be talking to about Charlotte is Tucker . I think back to all the times I’ve tried to broach the subject, only to be met with stony silence or evasive non-answers. It’s the one topic that’s always been off-limits, the one part of his past that he guards with a fierce intensity.
But why? What could have happened between them that was so terrible he can’t bear to speak of it?
Finally, she looks away and shakes her head once more.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sure you have plenty on your mind before the big day.” She turns back to the doorway and steps outside. “It was nice to meet you, Reese!” she calls over her shoulder.
“You too,” I say quietly as she ambles down the sidewalk. I stare after her for a moment longer, standing frozen in the doorway, the questions lingering in my mind.