Chapter 3
By eight the next morning, the dining table was covered in silk swatches and paper cups.
Celeste sat in the center chair, drinking tea from my blue stoneware mug, wearing an oatmeal cardigan that fell past her knees.
Grant stood behind her, marking a printed checklist with a carpenter's pencil while he ate a bagel.
"Morning," Grant said as I came up from the cellar. His voice was loud and bright, clean of the dirt from last night. "We’re laying out the schedule before the rental truck calls."
Tessa pushed a copy of the paper toward the empty stool.
Her eyes were puffy, but her chin was tilted up. She didn't say a word about the canceled debit card.
"The wedding is four weeks from Saturday, Mara," Tessa said, using that flat, brisk voice she used when she had to call insurance companies. "Since the chair invoices have to be sorted out today, we need to split the work."
I looked at the sheet.
Column A was labeled Celeste:
Dress fitting (11:00 AM, Juniper Bridal)
Menu tasting with the bakery
Prelude music selection
First-look photo list
Column B was labeled Mara:
Clear cellar junk for caterer access
Pick up Grant’s cousins at the airport (Friday, 9:00 PM)
Cook separate meals for four gluten-free guests
Meet chair delivery (Saturday, 6:30 AM)
Haul trash bags to the curb (Sunday morning)
Grant tapped the sheet with his pencil lead.
"It makes sense," Grant said, looking down at Celeste with an easy nod. "Celeste takes the family side, and Mara keeps the machinery running so nothing falls through the cracks."
He said it like he was handing me an award.
Celeste gave a small, tired sigh, touching the lace at her collar.
"I’m so grateful, Mara," Celeste said softly. "My head has just been spinning since the pipes broke in Louisville. Crowds make my chest hurt."
I looked at the three of them sitting in the morning sun.
Grant, the builder.
Celeste, the artist who had to be protected.
Tessa, the girl I had driven to early-morning band practices for seven years.
"No," I said.
The word fell on the table like a brick.
Grant’s pencil stopped over the paper.
"What?"
"Hire a coordinator," I said, looking right at Grant. "I have two book projects due on the thirtieth. I’m not driving to the airport at midnight, and I’m not dragging thirty trash bags down the driveway on Sunday morning."
Tessa’s face went dark, the color rushing into her cheeks.
"It’s my wedding, Mara!" she yelled, her hand slapping the wood. "You spent fifteen years telling me you were my family, and the first time I ask you to carry some weight, you throw it back at me?"
"Carrying garbage is family weight now, Tessa?"
"You had fifteen years with me!" Tessa shouted, her voice breaking. "Why can’t she have one month?"
The room went completely still.
The ticking of the clock in the hall sounded like nails hitting the floor.
Grant didn't tell her to sit down.
He didn't say a word about the fifteen years.
He just reached over, laid his big hand on top of Tessa’s shaking fingers, and muttered, "Take a breath, honey. Just breathe."
Celeste looked down at her tea, turning the mug by the handle, letting the girl do her fighting for her.
I looked at Grant.
"You're fine with that?" I asked him.
Grant looked up, his forehead creased with heavy, public disappointment.
"She’s under a mountain of pressure, Mara. You're forty-three years old. Stop picking fights with a girl who's trying to get married."
I didn't answer.
I reached out, took the paper off the table, and ripped it down the fold between the two names.
I dropped Column B into Grant’s cold tea mug.
"Have fun at the airport," I said.
I turned down the hall toward the front door, but Tessa’s sneakers squeaked on the floorboards behind me.
"Wait," she called out, catching my sleeve.
I stopped, looking down at her hand until she let go.
The red was gone from her face, replaced by that soft, pleading look she had used on me since she was twelve.
"The dress fitting is at eleven at Juniper Bridal on Sycamore Street," Tessa said, keeping her voice low. "I was just going to go with Celeste... but you can come too, Mara. If you promise not to make things hard."
I looked at her face, looking for any trace of the kid who used to fall asleep on my knees while I checked footnotes.
"If I promise not to make things hard?"
Tessa gave a tiny, careful smile, sure that fifteen years of habit would pull me along.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Just wear something nice. Don't make Celeste feel like she’s in the way."
Heat climbed up my neck. For one humiliating second, I wanted to say yes just to keep my place beside her.
Then I pictured the two columns on the breakfast table—one woman dressed for photographs, the other sent to haul trash before sunrise. My fear of losing Tessa had been doing Grant’s work for him.
"I’ll come," I said. "But I’m not paying for the privilege, and I’m not apologizing for being in the room."
Her careful smile disappeared. I walked past her before she could turn my answer into another assignment.
Behind me, Grant’s pencil struck the table. He had heard the boundary, and for once I did not turn around to soften it.