Chapter 11 - The Wedding Countdown
The desert sun beat down on the corrugated tin roof of Ross’s woodworking workshop, turning the interior into a fragrant, cedar-scented oven. Outside, the mesquite trees swayed gently in the hot afternoon wind, casting long, fractured shadows across the gravel driveway. Inside, Ross was meticulously sanding the smooth mahogany edge of our custom wedding arch, the rhythmic whine of the orbital sander filling the space.
I leaned against the workbench, rolling a stubby carpenter’s pencil between my fingers. Callie was sitting cross-legged on a folding camp chair in the corner, furiously typing away on her laptop as she worked on her high school biology project.
“You’re going to sand right through the grain if you keep lingering on that left joint,” I warned, pointing a finger at the wood.
Ross cut the power to the sander, the abrupt silence leaving our ears ringing slightly. He wiped a streak of sawdust from his forehead with the back of his forearm, leaving a powdery white smudge across his tanned skin. He smiled, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Habit of a perfectionist,” Ross said, leaning the tool against the workbench. “Much like my future wife, who has somehow managed to plan a ninety-person wedding, settle a bitter legal dispute over a motor vehicle, and survive a high-seas family feud all within the span of three months.”
“Don’t flatter me, you’ll ruin my reputation as a stressed-out bride,” I retorted, though I couldn't help the small grin that pulled at the corners of my mouth.
Life back in Tucson had settled into a rhythm that felt almost surreal in its normality. The shadow of Grant’s petty vindictiveness had finally lifted, blown away by the dry desert winds and the unyielding reality of a signed legal settlement. The 2021 Toyota Highlander sat in our driveway every single night, its tires dusted with fine red dirt, its title securely locked in my home office safe.
Yet, the ripples of the Alaskan cruise and the bridal shower confrontation still lingered in the peripheral vision of our family dynamic. My mother had called twice that week—short, tentative conversations where she asked about the wedding seating chart and whether Callie had finished her school shopping. There was a fragile, healing quality to her voice, as if she were walking on cracked eggshells, terrified that one wrong word would shatter what little connection we had left.
“Have you heard anything from Grant?” Ross asked quietly, as if sensing my internal shift in mood. He picked up a clean shop rag and began dusting off the mahogany arch.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Cory confirmed he hasn't tried to pull any last-minute stunt with the courts. Courtney posted a picture on Facebook of him mowing their front lawn in old gym shorts, looking thoroughly defeated. I think he’s finally realized that his intimidation tactics don’t work anymore.”
“Good,” Ross said firmly. “Because this Saturday is about you, me, and Callie. No outside drama allowed. If anyone shows up trying to hand-deliver an invoice for breathing oxygen, I’m locking the front gate.”
Callie looked up from her laptop, a bright, mischievous grin lighting up her face. “If Uncle Grant shows up, I’ll charge *him* a photography fee for taking pictures of his bad outfit.”
We all laughed, the heavy tension dissolving into the warm desert air. The wedding was just four days away. We were holding the ceremony in the lush, shaded courtyard of a historic boutique hotel downtown, surrounded by flickering fairy lights, blooming bougainvillea, and the people who actually loved and supported us.
Later that evening, after Callie had retreated to her bedroom to finish her homework and Ross was downstairs organizing his tools, my phone buzzed on the bedside table.
It was a text from an unknown number, but the prefix was local.
My heart did a brief, involuntary stutter step as I picked up the phone. For a second, I thought of Grant, wondering if he had found a new, inventive way to ruin a milestone. I swiped the screen open and read the message.
*“Hi Jolene, this is Wendy—Grant’s sister-in-law on Courtney’s side. I know things have been chaotic, but I wanted to reach out. I have a box of vintage family photo albums that your grandmother left behind years ago. Grant said he threw them out, but I found them in the garage. I want you to have them before the wedding. Can we meet up tomorrow?”*
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I stared at the screen, a complex knot of surprise and caution tightening in my chest. Aunt Wendy—Courtney’s eccentric, karaoke-loving aunt who had nearly brought down the bridal shower with her rolling suitcase—was offering me a piece of my family’s history that Grant had apparently tried to erase.
I replied slowly: *“I’d like that, Wendy. Name the time and place.”*
