“Just give them your name,” Emma had told me that morning. “Everything’s already paid for. You just walk in and walk out.”
I’d been running errands since six a.m. The florist. The dry cleaner for David’s suit. The party store for the little bags of birdseed the guests would throw. I’d slept maybe four hours the night before, the way you do when your baby is getting married in thirty-six hours and you’re sure you’ve forgotten something.
The bakery was supposed to be the easy stop.
“There has to be a mistake,” I said. “I’m Laura. The bride is my daughter. Emma Bennett. The order’s under her name. Three tiers. White fondant. Sugar flowers.”
The baker’s name tag said JANICE. She was about my age, with flour on her forearms and reading glasses pushed up into her gray hair. She looked genuinely sorry.
