No Weddings (No Weddings #1)(29)

My unsteady hands slipped into the side pockets of charcoal dress pants. They hadn’t been worn for exactly two years to this day. Since then, they’d hung in my closet, ignored, but not forgotten. The tailored wool had been brought out today as a cleansing of sorts. I decided who I was beneath it all, not others. Lasting healing came from within.

And so I stood silently, hands in my pockets, staring down at the ultimate catharsis in cake form. When I’d told Hannah the theme was “love is a battlefield,” she hadn’t disagreed.

But she’d expressed an entirely different perspective.

At first glance, the cake looked like a long table, like one would imagine existed inside the dining hall of a stately English manor, where the lord sat at one end, the lady at the other.

But instead of chair backs tucked beneath the table, they were gray headstones. And instead of a tablecloth, there was a sea of grass that stretched from one end of the eight-foot table to the other. Tufts of the vibrant green poked up through a littered mess of papers which were covered in a scrawled handwriting.

Most of the papers were torn letters that had words running down them, like tears had streaked the print. Bits of hearts in crimson red had been shattered, their pieces scattered like shrapnel.

The destruction was, at once, all consuming and inconsequential. Devastating and uplifting.

Because it told a gut-wrenching story.

As I took in all of the heartache depicted, understanding dawned. The two grave markers on the far ends were empty, devoid of any engraving, any marking of life. The two headstones in the center, however, told something else entirely. They were positioned so closely together, I almost thought they were one, but there was the barest light shining through them. At their feet, an abundant mound of grass sprang forth, bright green and healthy. Between them, in that indistinguishable space that hardly existed, was a pure white whole heart.

And inscribed on those two headstones, in bold letters, were matching his-and-hers epitaphs.

Loved.

The sounds of the party grew louder and more distinct. I felt a quiet presence beside me. Had no idea how long she had been there.

We stood in comfortable silence for a while, two people appreciating a work of art. Patron and artist. After absorbing the enormity of detail and emotion reflected in modest baked flour coated in sugar, I finally asked, “How can you create such beauty in impermanence?”

We remained facing forward, but I could see she’d shrugged. “It’s my medium.”

“It should be in a museum.”

“Thank you.” Soft-spoken, hidden emotion edged her voice.

“Cade! There you are.” Kristen sounded frantic. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There’s a disaster happening in the sound booth.”

She probably didn’t yet realize the disaster was my sense of humor. Or therapy. Like the pants. And the cake.

I glanced down at Hannah. Her eyes met mine.

A connection flared stronger there. Some unnamable bond, fragile and new, had begun to form between us, and it had flickered to life long before she’d created a mural of every tattered heart’s emotions exploded into a million pieces. Only now, I realized something very important—she knew devastating heartache too.

“I’ve got to go.”

A tender smile brightened, her face full of understanding. “I know.”

In a rush, I was assaulted by three female linebackers and bulldozed away. My last view before I had to become a businessman and fix technical problems was of Hannah laughing.

Oingo Boingo’s “Dead Man’s Party” played. No, it hadn’t been on the original soundtrack for tonight, but it was crucial for levity. The playlist was highlighted, of course, by the great Pat Benatar’s “Love is a Battlefield.” Connected on a wavelength with depth I didn’t yet understand, I realized Hannah had created her graveyard art, and without knowing it in advance, my music choices paid homage to her masterpiece.

By the time I returned, several members of the local press, one arts magazine, and one foodie magazine were taking photographs of Hannah standing beside her amazing work of art, posing with the first slice on her silver cake server. Although the PR had initially been intended to highlight our new business, and it would, all the photos and interest centered around Hannah’s unconventional creation.

Throughout the evening, glares came my direction from my sisters. They began when they caught sight of the morbidly themed cake. And their freak-out continued when every song that played would’ve been perfect for a Halloween party.

Each time they objected, I insisted they trust me with a tired, deadpan stare. Anyone could throw a boring, sappy Valentine’s Day party. What was happening here tonight caused the entire place to buzz with energy.

We’d knocked the ostentatious world of high-society events off its axis.

And if we had anything to say about it in the years to come, it would never be righted again.

Hours later, ribbon streamers patterned the wood floors in pinks, reds, and silver. The music had ceased. The lights, dimmed.

The cemetery cake? Demolished. But unforgettable.

“Well?” Hands in my pockets, I walked toward the Michaelson Three as they hovered by the same sliding barn door as they had on New Year’s Eve, waiting to pounce.

Only this time, no anger or frustration marred their expressions. One by one, they broke into huge smiles. Kiki began bouncing in excitement.