The sparkle in Christine’s eyes dimmed slightly.
“Confusion?”
“I never agreed to pay for my daughter’s wedding or honeymoon. In fact, I wasn’t even invited to the wedding.”
The words came out calm, measured, but I watched their impact register on Christine’s face like ripples across still water. “Oh.”
She blinked rapidly, her professional composure cracking.
“But Cathy said… she told me you were eager to contribute, that you felt terrible about missing the ceremony and wanted to make it up to her by covering the major expenses.”
I almost laughed. Almost. Instead, I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Did she really? How interesting. Tell me, Christine, when someone commissions your services, they sign a contract, don’t they?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“And who signed the contract for this wedding?”
Christine’s face went pale beneath her carefully applied makeup.
“Kathy and Gary. But she assured me that you would be handling the payments for certain items. Items totaling $70,000.”
I opened my purse and pulled out the invoice, now neatly folded.
“This arrived yesterday. No phone call, no discussion—just a bill with a charming note about how lucky I should feel to be allowed to contribute.”
The silence stretched between us like a taut wire. Christine stared at the invoice, then at me, then back at the paper.
I could practically see the calculations running behind her eyes. Deposits made. Vendors paid.
Her own commission hanging in the balance. “Mrs. Mack, I… I had no idea.
Cathy presented this as an arrangement you’d already agreed to. She seemed so confident that you would cover these expenses.”
“Did she pay you anything upfront?”
“A small deposit. 5,000.
The rest was supposed to come from you this week, with the balance due on the wedding day.”
I nodded slowly, filing this information away. “And what happens if those payments don’t materialize?”
Christine’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for her own coffee cup. “Well, we would have to… that is to say, without payment, we couldn’t provide the services.”
“All of them?”
“The vendors require payment before or on the day of service—the venue, the catering, the flowers, the photography, everything.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper now.
“If the payments don’t come through, there would be no wedding.”
I sat back in my chair, letting this sink in. Kathy had built her dream wedding on the assumption that she could bully me into paying for it. She’d counted on my maternal guilt.
My desperate desire to be included in her life. My history of saying yes when I should have said no. She’d counted wrong.
“Christine,” I said, my voice gentle now, almost motherly, “you seem like a lovely person, and I imagine you work very hard for your clients. This situation isn’t your fault. My daughter has put you in a terrible position.”
“What… what should I do?”
The question came out like a prayer.
“That depends. How much time do you need to make alternative arrangements? If hypothetically the funding for this wedding disappeared… for a wedding of this scale with just 3 weeks notice.”
Christine shook her head.
“It would be impossible. The deposits alone… most vendors don’t offer refunds for cancellations this close to the event date. Even if the cancellation is due to non-payment by the client, the contracts are with Cathy and Gary.
They’re legally responsible for payment regardless of family arrangements.”
The implication hung heavy in the air between us. I stood up, smoothing my dress. “Christine, I want you to do something for me.
When my daughter calls—and she will call, probably within the next day or two—I want you to tell her exactly what you told me. That without the payments I was supposedly going to make, there will be no wedding.”
“But Mrs. Mac—”
“And then I want you to give her my phone number and tell her that if she wants to discuss this further, she needs to call me directly.
Not send invoices. Not make assumptions. Call me.”
Christine nodded mutely, her face ashen.
“One more thing,” I added, pausing at the door. “Don’t feel bad about any of this. You’re not responsible for my daughter’s choices or their consequences.
You’re a businesswoman providing a service, and you deserve to be paid for your work. Just not by me.”
I left her sitting there, staring at the invoice I’d placed on her desk like evidence in a criminal trial. The elevator ride down felt different from the ride up.
Lighter somehow, as if I’d left some invisible burden in that office, along with my daughter’s assumptions about my compliance. Outside, the October air carried the scent of dying leaves and coming winter. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found a number I hadn’t called in months.
Janet Waters had been my neighbor when Cathy was small, back when we lived in the house Richard and I had saved for years to buy. Janet’s daughter, Rosa, had been Cathy’s best friend until high school. When my daughter decided that Rosa’s family wasn’t quite prestigious enough for her social aspirations.
Janet answered on the second ring. “Elaine, my God, it’s been forever. How are you, honey?”
“I’m well, Janet.
Actually, I’m better than I’ve been in years. Listen, I have a favor to ask. Do you still have Rose’s number?
I’d like to get back in touch.”
“Of course, she’d love to hear from you. She asks about you every time we talk. You know she’s a wedding photographer now.
Has her own business and everything?”
“A wedding photographer?”
I smiled, feeling the pieces of my plan shift and settle into place like a puzzle finally revealing its picture. “That’s perfect, Janet. Absolutely perfect.”
After I hung up, I walked slowly back to my car.
My mind already racing ahead to the next phase. Kathy wanted a dream wedding. She was about to discover that dreams could become nightmares with remarkable speed.
My phone buzzed with a text from a number I didn’t recognize. This is Christine Slaughter. I wanted to thank you for being so understanding today.
You’re right. I’m just doing my job. I hope everything works out for your family.
I typed back quickly. It will, just not the way my daughter expects. As I drove home, I found myself humming, something I hadn’t done in months.
The afternoon sun slanted through my windshield, and for the first time since Richard’s death, I felt like I was driving towards something instead of away from it. Rosa Pratt Kelly hadn’t changed much in the 15 years since I’d last seen her. Same warm brown eyes.
Same genuine smile that reached all the way to her soul. She’d agreed to meet me at a small cafe in Terry Town, halfway between our respective lives. And when she walked through the door, I felt something I’d almost forgotten existed.
The comfort of unconditional acceptance. “Mrs. Mack,” she said, approaching my corner table with arms already extended.
“You look wonderful.”
I stood to embrace her, breathing in the faint scent of vanilla perfume that transported me back to afternoons when she and Cathy would sprawl across my living room floor, painting their nails and whispering secrets. Back when my daughter still laughed freely, before she learned that love was a commodity to be rationed and withheld. “Please call me Elaine.
We’re both adults now, after all.”
I gestured to the chair across from me. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”
Rosa settled into her seat, her photographers’s eye automatically scanning the cafe’s lighting and angles before focusing entirely on me. “Mom told me you wanted to discuss some kind of photography work.
I have to admit, I’m curious. It’s been so long since we’ve talked.”
“How much has your mother told you about my situation with Cathy?”
A shadow crossed Rose’s face. “Some.
I know you two haven’t been close lately. I’m sorry about that, Elaine. I remember how tight you were when we were kids.”
“Do you remember why you and Cathy stopped being friends?”
Rose’s laugh held no humor.
“High school. She decided I wasn’t sophisticated enough for her new crowd. Said my family was holding her back from her potential.”
She traced the rim of her coffee cup with one finger.
“It hurt at the time, but honestly, looking back, I dodged a bullet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve kept tabs on her through social media over the years. Watched her treat people like stepping stones. Remember Tommy Brown from our graduating class?
She dated him for 2 years, let him pay for everything, then dumped him the week before prom because she got asked by the quarterback.”
Rose’s eyes met mine. “Some people never grow out of using others, you know.”
The waitress brought our coffee, and I used the interruption to
