Page 54 of The Wrong Groom

“Ah. I see.”

“It’s a charity initiative. Something that’s focused on accessible fashion and building a community space here in LA. Could be a good way to show Vérité’s involvement in something that goes beyond just products. Some good exposure for the brand.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. I can almost hear him processing the idea, but when he responds, his tone is neutral, giving little away.

“Hm, yes. We can discuss it at the board meeting.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. His lack of enthusiasm for his daughter’s project is beyond irritating, especially given how good an idea it is. “Of course. Just thought it might be a natural fit.”

“Thanks for bringing it up,” he says, sounding more distant now, the conversation winding down. “Anyway, I have to run, and I’m sure you do as well. I’ll see you at the meeting.”

“Looking forward to it. See you Thursday.”

When I step into the foyer of my house, the warm scent of something sweet greets me. I’m confused for a few moments. Usually, the place just smells clean, like polished wood and citrus cleaner. I’m not sure what’s going on until I catch the sound of laughter drifting in from deeper inside. High and light, unmistakably Peyton’s, followed by another melodic laugh I recognize as Alexis’s. A lower, more familiar chuckle that sounds like Margaret. The puzzle pieces click together, and I realize that the sweet scent is something baking.

I shrug off my coat, hanging it by the door, and set my briefcase down. I don’t know if this house has ever smelled so inviting. I make my way toward the kitchen, curiosity tugging at me. The closer I get, the more distinct the scent becomes. Vanilla, definitely, with a buttery undercurrent and the faintest hint of something fruity. Strawberries, maybe?

Margaret, Alexis, and Peyton are all in the kitchen, surrounding the central island together. Peyton stands on her tiptoes on the stepstool, gripping a piping bag stuffed with pink frosting. Her brow is furrowed in fierce concentration, her tongue poking out just a little at the corner of her mouth as she carefully squeezes a swirl onto the cupcake in front of her. The countertop is a chaotic sprawl of mixing bowls streaked with batter, spatulas smeared with icing, open jars of sprinkles scattered like confetti, and a fine dusting of flour.

It’s a mess. A complete, colorful, sugar-frosted mess. And I can’t bring myself to care one bit.

Alexis is leaning slightly toward Peyton, her hands lightly steadying the tray as my daughter finishes her frosting design. Her copper hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few escaped strands clinging to her cheek, and there’s a faint smudge of flour dusting the side of her nose.

Peyton finally looks up from her masterpiece and beams at Alexis, her cheeks flushed with excitement and a dab of pink frosting.

“It’s a flower!” she exclaims.

Alexis leans in a little closer, her smile softening into something that makes my chest feel tight. “That’s exactly what I was going to guess,” she says, smiling. I’m not sure that’s true, since from my angle, Peyton’s creation looks more like a wobbly starfish, but I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to disturb this moment.

Alexis reaches out, her fingers light and sure as she steadies Peyton’s small hands.

“A flower needs a center, doesn’t it?”

“Yes!” Peyton exclaims.

Alexis picks up a tube of yellow frosting and helps Peyton guide it toward the center of the pink swirl. The tenderness in the gesture catches me off guard. There’s something about the scene—about the way Alexis bends slightly to be closer to Peyton’s height, about the way she and Peyton giggle at the same moment—that sends a jolt through me. Alexis isn’t just humoring Peyton the way adults sometimes do with kids. She’s with her, fully present.

If Melanie was still with us, would this kitchen look the same right now? Would she and Peyton be standing just like that, heads bent close together, laughing over crooked frosting flowers?

The thought lands heavily, pressing against the edges of my ribs until it hurts to breathe. I don’t mean for it to come. It just does, uninvited and unwelcome, like it always does when I least expect it. Grief has a way of sneaking in through the smallest cracks.

But even as that old ache stirs, there’s something else creeping in alongside it. Something quieter. Warmer. Almost pleasant, a cocktail of grief and affection.

It’s dangerous, this feeling.

Because I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t prepared for this softness that feels like it’s burrowing under my skin, setting roots in ground that I thought was barren.

It’s Margaret who spots me and breaks my reverie. “Oh, Gabriel! You’re home!” She offers me a guilty grin and gestures at the dough-encrusted bowls on the counter. “We’ll clean up this mess, don’t you worry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, shaking my head. “You guys look like you’re having fun. And it smells delicious in here.”

“We’re making cupcakes!” Peyton tells me brightly.

“I can see that, Bug.”

“You should come put frosting on one!” she urges, holding out the piping bag she’s been using.

I glance at Alexis, who’s watching the exchange with an encouraging smile, and then at Margaret, who arches a brow as if daring me to decline.