Chapter 8: The Head Table

The pavilion sat at the end of a gravel path with the lake on three sides.

I had walked that path in June in a pair of flat shoes, imagining myself in a white dress.

On Tuesday afternoon I walked it with Conroy, because I wanted to see what Constance had done with my money.

The manager let us in through the side door.

She was a thin woman with a headset and a clipboard, and she looked at me with open sympathy.

"I shouldn't," she said. "But you were the original client, and Mrs. Rutledge isn't here until tomorrow."

The big room had been set for the wedding already.

Round tables, white linen, and gold chairs in rows facing the water.

I walked down the middle aisle.

Every chair on the left had a little place card on it, and every card had a name I didn't know.

I turned and looked at the right side.

It was set the same way.

"There's no bride's side," I said. "They just filled it with guests."

"There wasn't one planned," Conroy said.

He was standing at the head table at the front of the room.

The table was set for six.

I walked up and read the cards.

Colin Rutledge.

Lacey Drummond.

Constance Rutledge.

And at the end, in the gold ink I had picked out myself, a card that said: Best Man, Conroy Merrow.

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