Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
Mrs. Gable looked at us for a long moment, her expression softening. She had probably seen dozens of nervous couples stand in this very spot, arguing over linens or the price of the beef entrée. She reached out and touched the smooth oak lid.
“I will tell the banquet captain to leave this table completely alone after the Friday setup,” she said. “We will keep the skirt pinned down so nothing is visible from the floor.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” I said.
“Just make sure you have the key on Saturday morning,” she said, making a quick notation on her chart before turning toward the kitchen doors.
Mason slid the box deep under the table, pushing it against the thick wooden pedestal where the heavy drapery would hide it from every angle.
On Thursday afternoon, I visited Maribel’s brick cottage on Elm Street to help her pack. The living room was quiet, the warm autumn light filtering through the lace curtains and casting pale patterns on the green carpet.
Her cream-colored wedding dress was hanging from the wooden doorframe, its delicate lace sleeves catching the sun.
