I poured the cheap filter coffee into two thick ceramic mugs, the steam rising in the quiet morning air of the kitchen. The smell of the dark, bitter roast always filled the room on autumn mornings, a small comfort against the chill that crept through the wooden window frames. Adele sat at the wooden table, her pencil hovering over the invoice from the Oakwood Inn. The yellowed paper duplicate showed a total of four hundred and twelve dollars for the reception hall rental.
“The linen fee is separate,” Adele said.
Her voice was calm and measured, the tone she always used when she was trying to keep her own worries from spilling over into the rest of the house.
“We can handle the linen fee,” I said.
I set her mug down on the worn blue kitchen rug near her chair. The rug was frayed at the edges, the blue fibers faded to a dull gray where we walked the most.
Adele folded her hands tightly in her lap. “We don’t need the extra flower arrangements for the vestibule. We can move the altar pieces after the ceremony to save sixty dollars.”
“We’ll keep the flowers where they are,” I said.
I sat down and rubbed my left wrist, my fingers finding the pale, smooth band of skin where my wedding ring had been fifteen years ago. The skin there was still slightly lighter than the rest of my hand, a permanent mark of what had been lost.
The kitchen refrigerator gave a sudden, loud rattle, its motor straining against the morning heat before settling back into a low hum. We both looked at the old appliance, then back at the papers spread between us.
“Piper called at six,” Adele said, looking down at her notepad. “She wants to know if we need to pick up the extra rental chairs ourselves or if the church has enough in the basement.”
“The church has enough,” I said. “I checked with the sexton last week.”
“She’s worried about the seating plan,” Adele added. “She wants everyone to be fed and calm before the ceremony starts.”
