Chapter 20: The Microphone

The quartet played the bride in.

Roz came down the lawn in ivory silk on my father's arm, and a hundred and forty people turned to look at her.

She was lovely.

Nobody could say she wasn't.

My father delivered her to the arch.

He kissed her cheek and sat down in the front row beside my mother.

Her hand was stiff on her purse.

The officiant, a round man with a kind voice, welcomed the guests and talked about the lake and the light.

I stood at Roz's left, holding her flowers.

In the second row, in lavender, the social worker held her clipboard in her lap.

The two golf friends stood at the end of the aisle, hands folded.

"Before the vows," the officiant said, "the couple has asked me to say."

"Actually," said the groom.

He hadn't taken Roz's hands.

"Actually, I'd like the maid of honor to say something first."

Roz's smile held.

"Honey," she said, through it. "That isn't in the program."

"I know."

"We can do it at the reception."

"I'd like to do it here." He looked past her at me. "Imogen. You said you had a gift."

The social worker half rose.

I saw the golf friends take a step.

The groom's mother, in the third row, stood up and turned around.

"If either of those gentlemen takes another step," she said, in her principal's voice, "I'll be asking my husband to examine both their hearts."

The men stopped.

Someone laughed, a startled bark.

The officiant looked from one face to another and, bless him, handed me the microphone.

It was warm from his hand.

I looked out at the chairs.

I knew some of them.

Cousins, neighbors, my father's customers, his church.