Then the wedding planner, pale and shaking, whispered, “Should I cancel the reception?”
Grandma looked around at the flowers, the food, the chairs, the cake, the ridiculous golden menus.
Then she looked at me.
“Chloe?”
I looked at the aisle where Dad and Valerie had disappeared.
Then at the guests who had come to celebrate betrayal without knowing it.
Then at Lily, who had just found an entire family in the middle of a public disaster.
Then at Grandma, who looked exhausted and unbreakable.
“No,” I said.
The planner blinked.
“No?”
I picked up one of the gold menus.
At the top, in curling letters, it said:
Valerie & Jack — Forever Begins Today
I turned it over.
The back was blank.
“Change the sign,” I said. “This is a memorial lunch for Sarah.”
Grandma’s eyes filled.
Lily covered her mouth.
The planner stared at me.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”
And that was how my father’s wedding became my mother’s memorial.
The orchids stayed.
The champagne was put away.
The cake was cut anyway because Mom had loved cake and would have called wasting it a sin.