Chapter 24 #2
For as long as I can remember, my mother has guarded the serenity of her sewing room with an iron fist. Under no circumstances were any kids allowed inside.
Ever. It was her single sanctuary in a house overrun with four children.
The only time I was allowed inside was when she was pinning my dresses and costumes.
But with the wedding only three days away, even Mom’s sacred space hasn’t been spared from the chaos.
The room is being used as spillover sleeping space for Linney’s kids.
The daybed and its trundle have been packed away for the day, but Anna Carol’s pink walrus and William’s knit blanket are tucked carefully beside the pillow.
Along the far wall, several of my pageant outfits still hang proudly on display.
“Mom?”
My mom is holding a pile of white lace in one hand, a needle with pale blue thread in the other. “Oh hi, Nikki-Belle,” she says, finally looking up. “Happy birthday, sugar. What a cute outfit!”
“Thanks.” I beam.
“Oh, but I see you’ve got humidity hair. I think the mousse might be in the bathroom in my room, sweetie.”
She turns her attention back to her needle, and I deflate a little.
But then she looks up again. “By the way, I left you a biscuit with a candle in it downstairs, sweetheart.”
I smile. It’s a sweet tradition she’s always insisted on keeping up. No matter how much we’ve already celebrated my birthday, the actual day can’t go by without a little gesture.
I linger in the doorway. “What are you working on?” I ask her.
“I’m embroidering Cara’s initials to the hem. Like we did with Meema’s veil. Plus, it’ll give her a ‘something blue’!”
“Oh, right.” I remember her offering to do that, the night when Anna Carol asked Cara about her “face wig.”
I see the joyful concentration playing across my mother’s face, and I can’t help zooming backward in time to all the years of her doing this exact same thing—lovingly, painstakingly, sewing my pageant clothes.
Not just tailoring them to perfection so that they fit me like a glove, but adding in little personal touches, just because.
My initials, or a little embroidered lily or rose or dahlia.
One of her favorite flowers. A little message from her to me.
Because I was her little flower. Her little “belle.”
“That’s…” I swallow. “That’s really nice, Mom.”
Mom lifts a perfectly manicured hand to her mouth, eyes glistening. For a moment, I think she’s going to bring up the past too. But I’m surprised when she says instead, “I just keep thinking about her mother. How she’s not here to see her little girl walk down the aisle…”
“Yeah…” My heart catches in my throat. As much as my mother’s fawning over me could sometimes feel claustrophobic and pressuring, I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Cara, to watch her mother succumb to sickness, and then to have to go through her teen and adult years without a mom at all.
Suddenly, a nagging feeling of guilt rises up my throat. “Mom?”
She threads another pale blue loop without looking up. “Yes?”
“I love you.” I slip out of the room, gently closing the door behind me.
Screw hair mousse. Nate’s seen me in my wildest and weirdest—clothes stained with car oil, hair soaked with lake water, day-old-makeup-smeared face. Maybe I don’t need to worry about looking perfect for this conversation. After all, it’s not like there are any cameras on me.
And maybe not having to look perfect for Nate is part of what makes Nate perfect for me.
I RACE DOWN TO the kitchen, expecting to find Nate sprawled at the table eating bacon or refilling a cup of coffee, but the kitchen’s empty. Through the window, I spot him—working on the gazebo once again.
Where Cara and Cooper plan to have their ceremony in two days.
And it hits me square in the chest—this is really happening. I can choose to keep resisting, or I can just embrace it. Maybe my feelings for Nate have gone to my head, but somehow, embracing it doesn’t sound that terrible.
I go to the sink to fill my water bottle—and conveniently, to stand at the window with a direct view of the yard where he’s working.
He’s got on another one of those stained, slightly torn work T-shirts, his tanned arms on display, a slight streak of sweat showing along the middle of his back, between strong shoulder blades.
The humidity must be killing him.
I watch him for a moment in silence, struck anew by this Nate before me, who is not just the hot, flirty goofball I once thought he was.
Now I see something else in him. The older brother who had to be there for his family after his mom passed away.
The rock. The one who puts on a friendly smile and cracks a joke to keep things light, to make everyone comfortable, even when there must be a lot of unresolved pain beneath the surface.
He works with a surety and a competence that would have surprised me a mere week ago, but which I now recognize as just part of his unique Nate-ness.
Easygoing about most things; laser-focused when it matters.
He measures, marks, and cuts the wood with practiced ease. There’s a confidence in his movements.
It’s the same way he kissed me on that first night. The way he touched me last night, as if he was hungry for me but also wanted to take his time.
Sure. Focused. Not willing to cut any corners.
It’s strange how he can be so cynical about relationships, so guarded by humor, and yet so intentional, so thoughtful when it counts.
For years, I put so much pressure on myself to find Mr. Right.
Even after Aaron, I thought if I just put in enough reps, or worked hard enough, I’d get the love promised to me by every fairy tale I’ve read.
But the last few years on the LA dating scene pretty much cured me of that idea.
I’ve had to accept that the perfect Mr. Right from my Reasons lists doesn’t exist. But maybe Mr. Right for Me—who has just turned his ball cap backward, and why is that so attractive? —does.
The heat must be getting to him, because next, Nate pulls his shirt over his head. And now my own cheeks feel warm as I allow myself to drink him in. This man who, just last night, was all mine.
He bends over to grab a piece of lumber, and I get a full view of his muscled back. The divots and ridges along his shoulders that taper down to a lean waist.
I swallow a sip of water down the wrong tube and start coughing. I need to get ahold of myself. Tell him, tell him. The urgency is pressing in on me.
Nate pauses in his work, and for a second, I’m convinced he knows I’m watching him. But when he turns, it’s not to look back toward the kitchen but instead at someone approaching him across the yard.
I follow his line of sight.
It’s Cara. She approaches, and even from here, I can see there’s a look of distress on her face.
Nate seems to pause, then react with a gesture that makes it seem like he’s dismissing her concerns.
But it doesn’t end there. I watch as their banter turns more animated…
almost like they’re arguing about something.
No, they’re definitely arguing.
I realize I’ve actually never seen the Lancolm siblings fight. Mostly, they just seemed to coexist in a chill way, like two cats sharing the same sunny windowsill.
Maybe it’s because they lost their mom at a young age. I’m sure it forms a bond that I’ll never quite understand.
I watch as Cara shakes her head, looking exasperated by their exchange. I wonder if the stress of planning a wedding is actually starting to get to her.
I grab a glass and fill it with lemonade, then step out onto the porch and make my way across the lawn to the gazebo.
The tinny radio playing country music drowns out most of what they’re saying, but halfway there, I’m close enough to hear Nate say, “Drop it, Cara. I’m telling you it’s not any of your business. ”
“But—” she starts.
“No,” Nate interrupts and looks pointedly over Cara’s shoulder at me. She turns and something flickers across her face.
“I’ve gotta go… work on the seating chart.” She offers me a small smile and hurries back to the house.
I watch her leave, not bothering to point out that the seating chart’s been final since last Tuesday’s lunch meeting—and has since been immortalized on place cards in Linney’s perfect handwriting.
Beside me, Nate resumes his measuring.
“So,” I start, feeling awkward. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” he says without looking up.
“Didn’t seem like nothing. Is there an issue with her and Cooper?”
“She wasn’t arguing with Cooper, she was arguing with me,” he points out.
“So you were arguing.”
He shrugs, and the way he’s avoiding eye contact is making me nervous. “Just a sibling spat. They happen.”
But what would Cara be upset about with Nate, other than…“Oh. She doesn’t… suspect, does she?”
“Suspect?”
“You know… about us…” I feel weird just saying us—when there is so much more that needs to be said. “That’s why I snuck out last night,” I say, a little apologetically, “so no one would notice I wasn’t in my room. Or, you know, my closet.” I grin, but Nate doesn’t match it.
He just shakes his head and keeps his focus on the work. “Don’t worry about that.” He tucks his pencil behind his ear and pulls out a nail from the pouch at his waist.
Does he mean, don’t worry, Cara doesn’t know about us? Or don’t worry, I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you left before dawn after we slept together?