Chapter 4: Head Table

The reception started an hour late and nobody left.

Two hundred people stayed for the story.

They stayed for the open bar and the beef and the best gossip of their year.

My mother stood to give the first toast with her reading glasses on.

"I raised one daughter," Miriam said. "I taught her to count, and I'm very proud of her math."

The room roared.

At the head table, Vaughn leaned toward me.

"Your mother is a weapon," he said.

"You're only noticing now?"

"I'm noticing a lot of things today."

"Chloe told me something on her way out," I said. "She said Dillon can't leave her. She said to ask him why."

"Did he say why?"

"He's never said why he drives forty minutes around the lake road, either."

"Then it's something he'll bring to your door himself," Vaughn said. "Men like that always do."

His hand rested on the back of my chair. It did not touch me. I felt it anyway.

The planner appeared at my elbow with her silver clipboard, her face very careful.

"Gillian, the venue's final balance is due. The card on file for the bar is Mr. Lowry's."

"How much is the bar?"

"Eleven thousand, four hundred."

"Take his card off."

"And the band's gratuity, the cake knife engraving, and the late-night food truck. His card is on all of them."

"All of them," I said. "Run mine."

Vaughn turned.

"Put it on Stroud Hotels," he said to the planner.

"No," I said.

"Gillian."

"I'm not marrying you so you can pay for my wedding. I pay for my own party."

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