The baker’s assistant had already cleared five of the tasting plates, leaving only a smear of blackberry jam on the white linen. Derek tapped his knuckles against the glass-topped table, a dry, hollow sound that seemed to compete with the hum of the air conditioner.
I twisted the thin gold ring on my right index finger, round and round until the metal grew warm against my skin.
“The lemon curd is too tart for a September evening,” Derek said. His voice rose in that high, playful pitch he used when he was pretending to be accommodating. “Everyone wants something rich after a prime rib dinner. We are going with the double chocolate.”
Mrs. Gable, the baker, held her notepad above her lap, her pen hovering. She looked at me, waiting for the final nod.
“I thought the lemon was light,” I said, my finger tracing the edge of my saucer. “It balances the heavy menu we chose for the main course.”
“Darling, trust me on this,” Derek said. He did not look at me; he looked at Mrs. Gable and nodded once. “The chocolate. With the dark ganache. Write that down, please.”
Mrs. Gable scribbled on her pad, her silver bracelet clinking against the table. The room smelled of sweet vanilla and the damp pine that grew along the Carmel cliffs.
“Excellent choice, Mr. Hayes,” the baker said, rising from her chair and smoothing her linen apron. “I will have the invoice for the fifteen-thousand-dollar deposit sent to your office by Monday.”
Derek smiled, his teeth bright against his summer tan. “Send it directly to Claire’s assistant. She is managing the vendor accounts this week.”
The sunroom felt smaller after they left. I looked at the remaining crumb of lemon cake on my plate, untouched, and felt a quiet weight settle behind my ribs.
By eleven, the humidity from the ocean began to roll over the cypress trees, carrying the scent of salt and wet pavement into the driveway. We had three boxes of gold-painted stanchions and five crates of glass votives stacked on the gravel.
“The heavy boxes go in first,” Derek said, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his face flushed from the climb up the cellar stairs.
“These votives are fragile,” I said, lifting a smaller cardboard carton. “If we put them under the iron stands, the glass will crack before we even reach the venue.”
I leaned into the trunk of his sedan, angling the carton into the back corner where the carpet was clean.
The heavy lid of the trunk came down with a sudden, violent rush of air.
I pulled my hands back, the metal edge brushing the tips of my fingernails before the latch clicked shut with a metallic slam. The impact vibrated through the soles of my shoes.
Derek stood over the bumper, his hand still resting on the lock. He blinked, his chest rising and falling.
“You have to pack them in order, Claire,” he said, his voice dropping back into its normal, flat register. “If we do it out of sequence, nothing fits.”
He looked at my fingers, then up at my face. He took a short breath and reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from my forehead with a light, warm touch.
“I am sorry,” he said, his voice rising back to that high, gentle pitch. “It is just the heat today. This weather is making everyone crazy.”
“It is fine,” I said, though my fingers were still curled into my palms.
“We have a lot to do before Tuesday,” he said, turning back toward the remaining boxes on the gravel. “Just let me handle the packing.”
I picked up a smaller crate of silk ribbons, my right hand still cold from the close call, and walked them back toward the garage.
By one o’clock, the dining room table was completely covered in oversized sheets of cream-colored paper representing the seating arrangements for the reception. Patricia Hayes sat at the head of the table, her fingers tracing the names written on the pink sticky notes.
She adjusted her three-strand pearl necklace, sliding the clasp from the back of her neck to the front, then back again.
“We must have the Millers at the head table, darling,” Patricia said, her voice smooth and practiced. “They have been Derek’s father’s closest advisors for twenty years. It would be a snub to put them near the kitchen doors.”
“The kitchen door is where the caterers enter,” I said, leaning over the chart. “But the table next to it is reserved for the bridal party. Lena is sitting there.”
“Lena is a dear girl,” Patricia said, “but she is your business partner, Claire, not family. Once you and Derek are married, the business matters will naturally shift.”
She tapped a pink sticky note with her polished fingernail.
“When Arthur was alive, he managed every single account,” Patricia continued, looking out the tall bay window toward the guesthouse in the garden. “He always said a woman’s mind should be free of the ledger’s burden. You must let Derek handle the banking once the ceremony is over.”