In the bottom drawer, resting in its velvet-lined groove, was the silver fountain pen his mother had given him for graduation. The heavy pen caught the light from the closet, its polished barrel reflecting the pale blue of the bedroom walls. I picked it up, expecting it to feel light, but it had the weight of solid metal.
Beside the penholder lay a glossy piece of paper, folded into thirds. I unfolded it and saw a high-end travel brochure for a private resort in the Caribbean, complete with photos of white sand and turquoise water.
The reservation voucher tucked inside the brochure was dated for the following Tuesday.
My name was nowhere on the document.
“This brochure was printed last week,” I whispered to the empty room.
The reservation was under a single name, and the deposit had been paid in cash.
I stared at the silver fountain pen, the heavy metal cold against my palm. Tyler had told me his bank account was frozen because of an administrative error. He had asked my father for the eighteen thousand four hundred dollars because he said he did not want us to lose the venue deposit.
I walked back into the kitchen, the brochure gripped in one hand and the silver pen in the other. My father was still sitting at the table, his eyes fixed on the empty space in front of him.
I set the travel brochure on the table, right over the red stamp of the venue receipt.
Then I set the shiny pen down next to it, watching it roll slowly until it hit the edge of the salt shaker.
My father rolled his gray cap between his hands, his knuckles swollen from forty years of turning wrenches in his small repair shop. He looked at the kitchen clock, which was ticking toward half past six, then down at his worn leather boots.
“We could just let it go, Maddie,” he said, his gravelly voice sounding smaller than I had ever heard it. “We don’t have to go back there.”
“No,” I said, my finger twisting the bare skin where my engagement ring had been only five hours ago. “He paid eighteen thousand four hundred dollars. Every cent of his savings.”
Frank looked out the window at the gravel driveway where his old service van sat. “The guests are all gone home, honey. The food is just sitting there in the warmers.”
“My father paid for this dinner, and I am going to eat it.”
The drive to White Oak Manor took twenty minutes. The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt shiny and black under the streetlights, reflecting the neon signs of the auto parts stores and diners along the highway.
It was exactly seven o’clock when we pulled the van into the long gravel driveway of the venue. The grand brick building was lit up like a holiday card, every window glowing against the dark Kentucky sky, casting long yellow rectangles across the wet grass.
Inside the lobby, the air smelled of rich cedar wood and the bourbon-glazed meatballs that should have been passed around on silver trays hours ago. The silence in the grand entry hall was thick, broken only by the hum of the central heating.
Martin Cole, the venue manager, stood near the front desk, adjusting his left cuff as we walked through the double doors. His eyes narrowed when he saw us, his gaze dropping to my flat leather shoes and the hem of my wedding dress, which I had pinned up with safety pins to keep from dragging on the wet pavement.
“Miss Price,” Martin said, his voice carrying that formal, chilly precision that always made me feel like I was standing in a courtroom. “The rental period for the ceremony concluded at four. Your guests have departed.”
“I know,” I said, holding myself as straight as my nursing school instructors demanded during hospital rounds. “But the catering contract runs until midnight. We are here for the dinner.”
Frank took a step forward, his hand tremor visible even as he tried to pocket his keys. “We paid for eighty-five plates, Mr. Cole. The check cleared three weeks ago.”
Martin adjusted his right cuff, his face smooth and expressionless. “The kitchen staff is prepared, of course, but a single diner in a room of that scale is highly irregular. We usually begin cleanup by now in these situations.”
