Chapter 6 - The White Dress Comes Off
The heavy metal service door clicked shut behind the deputies, cutting off Brooke’s hysterics like a severed wire.
The prep kitchen was suddenly eerily quiet, save for the muffled hum of the bass from the barn outside and Diane’s soft, shuddering sobs. The smell of sweet almond extract and sour floor bleach hung heavy in the air.
Richard Vance exhaled a long, ragged breath. He walked over to the prep table, picked up the white envelope containing the foreclosure notice, and slid it back into his pocket. Then, he looked at Jason and me.
“I’m going to go outside and make sure the guests don't swarm the cruiser,” Richard said quietly. “Then I’m getting an Uber back to Charlotte. I’ll leave the keys to our SUV with your dad, Jason.”
Jason stepped forward and offered his hand. Richard took it, their grips firm and lingering.
“I’m sorry, man,” Jason said, his voice thick with empathy. “You didn't deserve any of this.”
“I enabled it for too long, Jason,” Richard replied with a sad, bitter smile. “I wanted the trophy life just as much as she did at the beginning. The difference is, I woke up. She just kept digging.” He turned to me, offering a respectful nod. “Clara... you’re a remarkable woman. Jason is the luckiest guy in the world. Don't let her ghost hang over this night.”
Richard turned and walked out the door, his shoulders squared as if the heaviest yoke on earth had just been lifted from his neck.
In the kitchen, only the family and the staff remained.
Diane was sitting on a metal folding chair by the prep table, her face buried in her hands. Robert stood beside her, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder. The older couple looked aged by ten years in the span of thirty minutes.
“I failed,” Diane whispered into her palms. “I created a monster. I gave her everything she ever asked for, and I created a monster.”
“You didn't create her, Diane,” Robert said gently, though his voice was raw. “We spoiled her, yes. We looked the other way when she was cruel because we didn't want the fight. But Brooke made her own choices. Tonight, she chose to commit a crime.”
Robert looked up at me. He walked across the room, carefully avoiding the smears of cake on the floor, and stopped in front of me. He took both of my hands in his calloused ones.
“Clara, my girl,” Robert said, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. “I owe you an apology I will spend the rest of my life making up to you. I let that girl poison my mind about your family. I let her make me question the money we gave you for this wedding. Can you ever forgive an old fool who didn't see what was right in front of him?”
Tears finally welled in my own eyes, spilling over my lashes. I squeezed his hands tightly. “Robert, you don't owe me anything. You’re Jason’s dad. You’re my family now. That’s all that matters.”
Diane looked up, her mascara streaked across her cheeks. She stood up, hesitant, her lower lip trembling. “Clara... I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I said earlier. About it being an accident. I just... I wanted so badly to believe she wasn't evil.”
“I know, Diane,” I whispered.
Jason stepped in, wrapping both of his parents in a tight hug. For the first time in the four years I had known the Callaways, there were no secrets, no passive-aggressive snide remarks, and no shadow of Brooke dictating the emotional temperature of the room. The wound was deep, and it was bleeding, but the poison had finally been drained.
Susan cleared her throat from the doorway. She had her tablet out, tapping away furiously. “All right, family. The deputies have departed with the suspect. The guests saw the cruiser leave, and naturally, people are confused. But I have an announcement to make.”
We all turned to look at her.
“We have an open bar with top-shelf bourbon, a nine-piece band that we paid for through midnight, and eighty pounds of smoked pulled pork and brisket waiting to be eaten,” Susan said, a fierce, protective grin spreading across her face. “Are we going to let a spoiled woman in handcuffs dictate how this night ends?”
“Hell no,” Megan cheered from the hallway, pumping her fist in the air.
“Wait,” Jason said, looking down at the mess on the floor. “What about the cake? The cake cutting is supposed to be the centerpiece of the reception.”
Mrs. Whitfield stepped forward, untying her apron. She had a mischievous twinkle in her sharp blue eyes.
“Mr. Callaway, you leave that to me,” the baker said. “Susan, do we still have the catering kitchen’s industrial sheet pans and the extra sheet cakes in the walk-in cooler?”
Susan’s eyes lit up. “Three full double-layered vanilla and chocolate sheet cakes for the back-room serving staff.”
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“Bring them out,” Mrs. Whitfield commanded. “And bring out every spare strawberry, blueberry, and dusting of powdered sugar you have in that pantry. We’re going to build a rustic dessert bar that will make these people forget what a tiered cake even looks like.”
***
