She’d make a good profit. With the next installment payment on her updated truck overhaul, plus the custom paint job due, she was happy just to be here. And in the day and age of monkey see, monkey do, who knew what other jobs it could lead to.
It was a lovely spring day, California style. The sun was out, temperatures in mid seventies, with only a hint of a breeze. The old and modest museum, designed in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, was located in the Mission Canyon area of Santa Barbara and had been recently renovated. It was beautifully redone, combining minimal architectural improvements to enhance the surrounding nature. Each complementing the other. Literally nestled in riparian oak woodland, the museum setting seemed idyllic for weddings.
Lacy glanced around at the young, hip and rich group arriving in the reception area. The ceremony must be over. A few women even wore hats, maybe influenced by the royal weddings in England over the last few years. Who knew the reason, but those hats dressed up the crowd. It made the occasion extraspecial, which caused Lacy to smile. The few spring pastel dresses mixed with the artsy black many guests chose to wear made for a nice contrast.
She’d thought hard before accepting her first wedding job last month, when she’d just finished revamping her father’s food truck and had gotten all the required certifications. Weddings were a tough subject, even after all this time.
Five years ago, she’d been engaged to be married to the greatest guy on earth. She’d never believed she could feel so much love for someone other than her parents. Of course, her love for Greg had been on a totally different level, and she couldn’t wait to be his wife. Ever the military gentleman, he’d gone old-school and, in her mother’s rose garden, dropped to his knee to ask her to marry him. So thrilled and excited by his question, she’d fallen to her knees to be face-to-face with him when she’d said yes. They’d cried and laughed and hugged and kissed, and then, because she’d had the house to herself that day, they took it inside.
There’d been one problem though. He’d been called up for a six-month deployment to Afghanistan, so they’d have to wait at least that long before they could tie the knot. Going in, she’d known and accepted that this would be the life of a military girlfriend and future wife. What were a few months in a lifetime, they’d rationalized together to help make his leaving a little easier.
Two months after Greg had left, his parents called, sounding shaky and asking her to come to their house. Once there, they’d all been told together in person by an army major in their jurisdiction that Sergeant First Class Gregory Timberland had been killed by friendly fire. Lacy, though stunned, remembered thinking what a horrible job that major had, having to tell families the awful news. In his low and respectful voice with a slight tremble, the major had gone on to say that one of Greg’s own guys had killed him in a horrific mistake. It was an accident, of course, but nevertheless, who had come up with such a terrible term for what had happened? Friendly fire had to be the world’s worst oxymoron.
She couldn’t imagine the horror the other military guy—the one who’d made the mistake—must have felt when he’d realized what he’d done. At the news, she’d melted into a sadness so deep she couldn’t imagine ever seeing her way out.
The last time she and Greg had spoken over the internet had been two days before that earth-shattering news. Greg had been animated and full of life, and they’d made a few more plans for their wedding, laughed together, then said they loved each other. She’d loved him so much. Then he was gone. Along with all her dreams. The next few months had been a blur, and only after her father had insisted she get out of bed and stop acting like she’d died, too, did Lacy try to pick up her life without him. A task she couldn’t imagine pulling off.
That had been five years ago, and losing Greg still hurt. The flowers also reminded that she’d let her mother’s rose garden go to weeds after her father died. The place where Greg had proposed. Mom. Another person she’d loved and lost. Now guilt edged in along with the other sad memories. All because of today’s beautiful wedding grounds. She’d been blindsided with Greg’s memory and, worse yet, had let herself go there. Which led to thinking of losing her father and her mother. All the people she loved. Now she had to quickly wipe her eyes or run the risk of crying into the steak marinade. The memory was still too painful. But if she got the regular job at the senior housing building site, she wouldn’t have to take these wedding gigs anymore. Wouldn’t have to be reminded. So she’d do everything in her power to make sure she got that job.
Later, after the wedding and during the reception, a young woman, one of the hat wearers in pale blue head to foot, stood in the short line for a chicken wrap. She made a strange expression when Lacy handed the food to her, as if time had stopped for a moment when they looked at each other. After she took the wrap, the young woman started to step away, but quickly turned back. “Eva?” she said, sounding incredulous.
Lacy shook her head. “Uh, nope, I’m Lacy.”
“Oh.” The woman kept staring eerily at her. “Thanks.”
“I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will. Thanks.” She looked up again. “You look exactly like Eva.”
Absurd, right? Yeah, all redheads look alike. Heard that one a few thousand times before. Though under the circumstances, the wedding and all, plus the fact the young woman wore a really cool blue hat, Lacy wanted to be polite.
“Don’t they say everyone has a doppelgänger?” A nervous laugh escaped Lacy’s mouth as she said it, doing her best not to let on the young woman’s observation had unsettled her.
“Wow. You laugh just like her, too.” A dumbfounded expression accompanied the hat-wearer as she held the bag with the chicken wrap tight to her chest and walked backward, staring at Lacy the entire time until the crowd curtained her. Then the brunette’s hand, holding a cell phone, rose over a couple of heads.
Lacy swore she’d just had her picture taken.
Sunday night, Zack sat at the kitchen table and caught up on some paperwork while his ten-year-old daughter, Emma, heated canned soup in a pot and made her one and only specialty—grilled cheese sandwiches.
“Dad, can I cut up some carrots and add it to the soup? It’ll make it more healthy.”
“Hmm?” Concentrating on organizing business receipts, he’d only tuned in for the last couple words. “Healthier,” he corrected. Their deal was, if she wanted to cook, which she wanted to do all the time lately, he had to be in the kitchen with her.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” She let go a large and loud sigh, her current favorite thing to do whenever he corrected her or didn’t pay enough attention, which he’d just done both.
“Sure.” He laid down his pencil and pushed the pile of papers aside, because he had some making up to do and business could wait. Since his divorce, he’d made a promise to himself, on behalf of Emma, to be all he could be for his daughter. “I’ll watch.”
Another sigh, but she also smiled, a look he treasured. He stood nearby as she used the peeler and carefully cut small round pieces from the thin carrot, then tossed them into the heating chicken-and-rice soup. She smiled up at him again as she did, making his insides warm right up to his chin. How could his ex-wife turn her back on their daughter?
He squeezed her shoulder. “Good job,” he said, which garnered another smile from her.
Emma
