Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
“What was that all about?” Bernie asks as she enters the room, her eyebrows raised in a mixture of curiosity and concern.
I bite my lip for a second longer, stewing over the encounter.
The truth is, I’d love to tell her.
I’d love to sit Bernie down and explain how the ghost of Charlotte has been following me and Tucker around since our first date. How I can’t seem to escape this woman from his past. How every customer who walks into my shop either knew her personally or they’ve heard about how she left Tucker at the altar. How I had to toss out a dozen monogramed pillows scattered throughout the house with her name on them. Or how every restaurant in town gives us Tucker’s “special” table—he’s never said anything but I know that’s where he and Charlotte used to sit. And the funny look the waitress gives me when she shows up to the table confirms it—she clearly was expecting someone else.
It’s like everywhere I turn, there’s another reminder of the woman who came before me, the one who seemingly had it all—the perfect relationship, the stunning home, the charmed life. And then she up and disappeared, the day of her fairy-tale wedding.
How it’s all very weird. Just thinking about it makes my palms sweat.
But even as the urge to confide in Bernie grows stronger, I force myself to swallow it back. Our relationship has always been light and easy, a refuge from the complicated social web that seems to ensnare everyone else in this town. She’s the one person I can talk to without feeling the heaviness of Charlotte’s memory bearing down on me, the one friend who sees me for who I am rather than whom I’m trying to replace.
And I’m not ready to let go of that, not yet.
“Oh, nothing,” I say instead, smoothing down the front of my apron with hands that tremble slightly. “That was just Cara Dawson, the woman who ordered the baby shower cookies yesterday.”
Bernie’s face lights up. “Oh, great! So, what did she think? Did she love them?”
I force a smile onto my face, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels. “She did, actually. You did a fabulous job, Bernie. Thanks again.”
The words feel hollow, a flimsy cover for my internal struggle. But Bernie just beams, her cheeks flushing with pleasure.
“It’s nothing,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. Then she turns her face toward the tasting room. “So, how’s it going with the gala prep?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
We walk over to the tasting room where I have the makeshift workroom set up for the big gala. I walk her through each pastry, and my thoughts behind the design. She nods and listens, interjecting a few suggestions here and there. When I’m finally done, she pats me on the shoulder.
“Everything looks fabulous,” she says. “You’ve outdone yourself, Reese.”
Now it’s my turn to beam with pride. Her face suddenly falls. “But don’t we need to get these into the freezer?”
My shoulders fall. As I told Cara, we’ve had to crank the air conditioning in the shop while we wait for the repairman to come and fix the walk-in cooler. Meanwhile, I’ve loaded everything I could into the freezer, hoping it thaws out properly and doesn’t lose its shape or color before the gala on Saturday.
“You’re right. I’m still waiting on the repairman. For now, these go into the freezer.”
Bernie just nods, her expression sympathetic. “Hey, whatever works. You’re doing great, Reese. Now, I should get back to the wedding cake I’ve been working on. The customer is a real bridezilla.”
She gives me a good-natured nudge. I smile. “Thanks. Let me know if you need anything.”
Bernie turns and heads back into the bakery area. I busy myself with the final details of the macarons, forcing myself to focus on my work and not think about what Cara Dawson said.
About thirty minutes later, the front bell rings again. I tuck a few pieces of hair behind my ears and grab a towel to wipe my hands before heading out front.
When I see who’s waiting there, I let out a sigh of relief. Standing in the front of the shop is a round man with a uniform that reads “Freddy’s Freezer Repair.”
“Oh, you must be here to repair the walk-in cooler. Your timing is perfect!” I quickly march across the room to enthusiastically shake his hand. “I’m Reese Montgomery.”
“Charlie,” he says, shaking my hand with his own pudgy ones. “Where’s the cooler you need fixed?”
I’m slightly taken back by his frankness, but regardless, I lead him to the back of the bakery where we have a large walk-in cooler unit.
“It’s been giving us trouble since last month, but it completely quit a few days ago.”
“Got it,” he says. “I’ll get started right away.”
I fumble with the waistband of my apron. “The thing is, I really need to have it fixed today. We have a big gala coming up, and I’m blasting the air conditioning just to keep the pastries chilled. I’d love to be able to get these inside the cooler before I have to leave at the end of the day.”
He stares at me, no emotion or expression on his face.
“I’ll do my best.”
My heart drops. I was hoping for more confidence on his part. The real truth is I need the cooler fixed yesterday. The freezer is running out of room and I can only imagine what my electric bill next month is going to be with all the air conditioning I’ve been blasting through the shop.
“Thank you so much. I mean it,” I say.
I leave him to work and head back up into my office to check on some invoices. I pull out my phone and notice I have a couple of message notifications. Before I get to the invoices, I swipe them open.
The first message comes from an app called Snaptalk, which I haven’t used in months. Bernie installed it on my phone last summer, insisting we could use it to send each other funny messages that vanish after sixty seconds. I tap on the notification, which says I have a message from Snapper2344. When the message loads, my breath catches in my throat, and a chill runs down my spine.
It reads:
Don’t marry Tucker. He is a murderer. You have four days to call off the wedding.