A sudden chill settled in my chest as I looked at the calendar on the wall, realizing that was only six weeks away. “October is incredibly rushed, Rowan. Your brother won’t even have his quarterly reports finished.”
“It is exactly what we want, Mom,” Rowan said, her tone sharpening. “We do not need a year of planning to know our own minds.”
At four, the coordinator at the Oak Ridge Country Club office laid out the catering contract on a dark walnut desk.
The small office smelled of stale carpet and commercial floor wax.
“We can offer the twelve-dollar plates of chicken marsala for a party of eighty,” the coordinator said, tapping her pen on the grid. “But the non-refundable deposit is five thousand dollars to secure the twelfth.”
I reached into my purse for my checkbook, expecting Arthur to do the same.
Arthur stood near the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the manicured golf green. “Helen, you mentioned wanting to handle this part as our wedding gift.”
“I said I would help with the catering,” I said slowly, pausing between my words. “I assumed we would co-sign the booking together.”
Arthur shook his head with a warm, easy smile that did not reach his eyes. “My accounts are tied up in the firm restructuring this month, so it is much cleaner if it is just in your name.”
The coordinator held out the pen, waiting for a signature on the deposit slip.
“I can transfer the funds from the savings account tomorrow,” I said, the quiet pressure of Rowan’s hopeful stare weighing on me.
By eight in the evening, the air on the front porch had turned cold enough to see my breath.
Caleb sat on the steps, tapping his knuckles against the wooden railing in a slow, rhythmic pattern.
“I looked up Arthur’s consulting firm this afternoon,” Caleb said, his voice flat and precise.
