Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
From the hallway, the sound of Maribel coughing dryly made me freeze.
I set the brush back down exactly where I found it and covered it with the peach towel.
When I returned to the living room, Mason was sitting on the edge of the armchair. Maribel sat stiffly on the sofa, a bright blue silk headscarf pulled low over her ears, completely covering her hairline.
She poured some cold English breakfast tea into three small porcelain cups. The tea had been sitting out, and it tasted bitter, like the cheap two-dollar cups from the diner down the road.
“You two have too many wedding errands to run today,” Maribel said, her trembling fingers adjusting the tight knot of her scarf at the back of her neck. “You should not waste your day sitting here.”
“We have plenty of time, Grandma,” Mason said. “We wanted to talk about the rehearsal dinner menu. The venue needs the final headcount.”
“I am not hungry these days,” she said, looking down at her teacup. “Just put me down for whatever is easiest.”
“But we need to know if you want the chicken or the fish,” Mason said. “It is a matter of keeping the whole evening in context.”
“It does not matter,” Maribel said. She stood up slowly, her hand resting on the arm of the sofa for balance. “Really, you must go now. The florist closes at three.”
I stood up too, rolling my engagement ring around my finger again. The blue scarf she wore was brand new, and she had never been a woman who wore wraps indoors.
“Well, we can come back tomorrow to help you with the garden,” I said.
“No,” Maribel said quickly. “The yard is fine.”
She ushered us toward the front door, her small hand pressing against my shoulder to keep us moving.
