BY NOON, WEDDING DAYoperations 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 onthe 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 LINNEYSCHOOL, then PETEFOOTBALL, then finally find one with my own handwriting across the top, the loopy letters familiar as my own reflection.
NIKKI’SWEDDINGBOX
I kneel beside it, brushing my fingers over the Sharpie-bleeding label, and lift the lid.
Instantly, I’m brought back in time as memories flood me. There’s a scatter of old bridal magazine clippings, edges curled and yellowed. There’s a page with“10 Hairstyles that Say ‘I Do’”in hot-pink font. A printed-out picture of the Disney castle, annotated in gel pen—“honeymoon here??” At the bottom, a folded napkin from Linney’s Atlanta wedding.
I remember putting each of these items in here at various times, adding to the excitement of my one-day fairy tale coming true.
