Page 31 of The Last Road Trip

“Perfect, me too.”

“Great!” Maren says. “I’ll reach out to him this week. I still have his number from when Danielle used him.”

“Get a quote for the arch, a display stand for the ceremony programs, and maybe a small welcome sign,” I say. “I’ll look at what the venue already provides before we confirm everything.”

“On it.”

Coris hands the phone back to Maren and picks up two of the venue photos to compare them side by side, holding them at arm’s length. She goes quiet for a moment, which with Coris usually means she is either about to say something extremely specific or she has finally run out of opinions. It’s the former.

“You need a cake topper that isn’t a man and a woman in matching formal wear,” she says.

Maren puts her hand over her eyes.

“That is not a concern I have,” I say.

“I’m just saying. Just putting it in the room.”

“I heard,” I say. “It is noted, but not my biggest worry right now. We are moving on.”

For the next hour this goes on. At some point, we start laughing. I don’t notice exactly when it starts. It just happens with Maren laughing at something Coris said about the cake, Coris objecting to being laughed at, then laughing too. Through it all, an overwhelming amount of warmth settles over me. When I was with Buck, Coris and Maren drifted away from me. Now that they’ve seen the truth, we’re back together and better than ever. Thank goodness for that. I can’t imagine not having my daughters here helping to plan my wedding.

Chapter 19

Harriet

Wedding planning had been a whirlwind. Exactly four months after Kwemby proposed, we’re here. Tomorrow is our wedding day; today is the rehearsal.

I stand at the back of the garden with my bare hands clasped together. My left ring finger is empty, though a new one will replace it tomorrow. The white folding chairs form perfect rows down the center aisle, each one tied with a thick teal ribbon with ends that flutter in the spring breeze. Beyond them is a gorgeous handcrafted wooden arch made by a carpenter named Jake Matthews.

My cherry red dress—not white, because I’m fifty and I’ve earned the right to wear whatever color I want—falls to a few inches above my knees. It’s a quarter-length sleeve with a modest scoop neck and a small black bow.

At the arch, Kwemby adjusts his lapel. His handsome suit fits perfectly across his shoulders, the micro-fabric shirt underneath his jacket crisp. Our eyes meet across the garden, and his mouth curves into a smile.

The twins stand to the side of the arch, one on each side. Maren is in a teal blue dress with her hair pulled back, while Coris is in a matching one with her hair loose around her shoulders. They look like adults, rather than the bratty young adults who rolled their eyes at family dinners and who stood on Gary’s deck watching their mother’s previous marriage fall apart. They watch me, faces set in identical expressions of pride.

“It’s a small group tomorrow,” the officiant says, breaking the silence. She’s a woman in her forties with short gray hair and a kind smile, dressed in a simple skirt and blazer. “Harriet, you’ll enter from here, slowly walk down the aisle and meet Kwemby at the arch. Then, together, you’ll take a few steps forward until you’re just past it. Once you reach this tiny ‘x’ here”—she points out the barely there mark so we know where to stop—“You’ll stand facing each other, hands joined. I’ll ask you to exchange vows, you’ll say ‘I do,’ and then we’ll wrap it up with a kiss.”

Over two years ago, I was sitting on a park bench, calling a divorce lawyer, telling a stranger I wanted to end a twenty-five-year marriage. Now I’m standing in a garden redoing the whole marriage thing, except he’s the one I should have started with. What a difference time makes. I’ve gone from one man who can’t spare me a second to a man who waited three decades for me.

“We’re ready to start,” the officiant says, stepping to the side. “Harriet, whenever you’re ready.”

In the garden, there’s only the sound of the wind in the trees. I take a deep breath, feeling my chest expand with the effort. One step, then another, my feet carrying me down the aisle between the rows of empty chairs.

Rehearsal finishes with no complication. We’re still outside, standing in a small circle. That is, until I see Buck at the edge of the garden, one hand on the gate, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans.

Naturally, I freeze, as does everyone else.

Eyes ringed with shadows, he stands with his hair sticking straight up. When we divorced, he still had a full head of it, but now it’s thinning. He watches us for a long moment, his expression one I’ve never seen from him before. He may be the twins’ dad, but I didn’t invite him.

Kwemby squeezes my shoulder in question. Maren’s jaw tightens, her hand coming up to Coris’s arm. Coris takes a half-step forward, her posture protective. I raise one hand, palm out, and they all hold. This is mine to handle.

Buck walks to me slowly, as if afraid a sudden movement might break whatever is keeping me here. Stopping a few feet short, he’s close enough that I can see the stubble along his jaw. He doesn’t so much as glance at my future husband, nor does he acknowledge the twins. His gaze stays locked on me, trying to memorize every single line across my face. It was Buck who carved the deep grooves of worry between my brows, while the softer crinkles around my eyes belong entirely to the laughter Kwemby has restored to me over the last two years.

“I know I have no right to be here,” Buck says, his voice low. “But I needed you to hear me say it directly.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “For years I was a jerk. I took you for granted. I manipulated you.”

Behind me, everyone is painfully quiet. I think of all the years I spent with this man. Of the meals I cooked and the fights I smoothed over and the apologies I made for needing things he wouldn’t give.

“I accept your apology,” I say.