My fingers were clumsy as I took the paper, my hands unsteady as the receipt slipped and fell onto the glass counter. Jerome looked at my hands, his eyes narrowing slightly with concern.
“You alright, Robert?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said.
I picked up the slip and tucked it into my shirt pocket. “Just a lot of details to track.”
“The dinner at the Inn is covered,” Jerome said, his voice quiet. He looked away, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “We don’t need to worry about the final payment.”
I knew he was hiding his own worries about the cost, but I didn’t press him. We stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the wind blowing a few dry maple leaves across our path.
“Adele said you got a text this morning,” Jerome said.
I cleared my throat, the old habit returning as I thought of the message on my screen. “It was from Maya.”
Jerome stopped walking, turning to look at me. “What does she want?”
“She’s coming to the wedding,” I said. “And she’s bringing her husband, Harry.”
“Does Adele know?”
“No,” I said. “She thinks Maya is still in Chicago, ignoring the invitations.”
“We don’t need her money,” Jerome said. “I can cover the extra cost of the reception dinner if she tries to buy her way in.”
“It’s not about the money,” I said.
“Then what is it?” Jerome asked.
“She wants to show him that she didn’t lose anything,” I said. “She wants to prove she was right.”
“You have to tell Adele, Robert.”
“Not yet,” I said. “Let her have this afternoon.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time. The green indicator light on the top corner was blinking, a slow, silent pulse in the pale afternoon light.
I stared at the blinking green light on my phone screen.
I hauled the metal rack of green chairs across the linoleum, the wheels squeaking against the salt-stained floor of the Methodist church basement. The air down here always carried the smell of cheap filter coffee from the silver urn that had sat in the corner since the Presbyterian social of nineteen ninety-four.
Adele took the first chair by its cold frame and set it at the end of the third row, her movements slow and deliberate.
“Did she send anything else after that first text?” Adele asked. Her voice was steady, the same measured tone she used when she helped the younger girls with their schoolwork.
“Just the one,” I said. I rubbed my left wrist, my thumb finding the bare skin where my gold wedding band had lived before she walked out. “She said she was coming.”
Adele stopped and folded her hands tightly in front of her gray apron, looking down at the row of metal chairs.
“She has a right to be there, Dad,” she said.
“I never said she didn’t,” I said, though my throat felt dry as I spoke of the past. “I just want to know what she expects after all this time.”
“She expects to see her daughter get married,” Adele said. She turned back to the rack and lifted another chair. “We don’t need to make it more than that.”
