Her lips curved, faintly amused. “You must be the best man.”
“Guilty,” he said. “Though I’m still working out if that means charming or useful.”
“Start with charming,” she said, taking the glass. “We can work our way down.”
Laughter rippled again, polite, too bright, too rehearsed.
At the far end, Elaine watched the table, her eyes focussed on her son. When she caught my eye, she smiled, a small, knowing shrug that said:It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?
And she was right. Everything gleamed, the wine, the conversation, the people. But beneath it all, something fragile was beginning to strain, the way silk pulls before it tears.
The first course arrived like a small miracle. Plates drifted down in unison; silver gleamed; steam curled up and vanished.
“Have you picked your first dance?” Lucas asked into a lull, clearly hoping the answer wassomething upbeat I can join halfway through.
“We’ve narrowed it down,” Caroline said.
“To what?” he persisted.
“To songs,” James said, and the table chortled, grateful for the easy line.
From my corner, I watched them all recalibrate, tiny dials turning, unease lowering by degrees. This is what rehearsal dinners are for: pretending practice will make perfect.
“Tell us about the honeymoon,” Elaine prompted kindly, unaware she was tossing a conversational grenade.
“Hawaii,” James said.
“Hawaii,” Caroline said at the same time. They both stopped. Smiled. It would look charming on camera.
On the edge of the ring of light, the band playing on the lawn area slipped into a song I couldn’t name, the sort of melody that brightens anyone’s mood, and the conversation found a rhythm. Laughter rose and fell.
Margaret dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, the universal signal forlet’s move things along. “Well,” she said, in the tone of a woman introducing an important cultural event, “I think it’s time for a few words.”
A ripple moved through the table. Chairs shifted. Glasses were topped up.
James stood, fingers brushing against the stem of his glass. “Right,” he said. He looked over at Caroline, who gave a small nod, the kind of nod you give a person before they dive off a high board.
He stood, clearing his throat. “I’m not much for speeches,” he began, which immediately made everyone settle a little deeper into their seats. People who say that usually are. “But I just wanted to thank everyone for being here. It means a lot, especially to Caroline and me.”
His eyes flicked around the table, to Elaine, who beamed with pride; to Richard, already halfway through his next glass;to Margaret, who nodded as though she was personally being thanked.
“And to the Harrington family,” he went on, “for welcoming me in so warmly.”
It was a nice line. Polished. But I saw his thumb trace a circle against the base of his glass, a small, restless motion.
Margaret inclined her head graciously. “We’re delighted to have you,” she said, in the same tone she might use for a corporate merger.
James smiled, though his voice caught subtly on the next words. “Caroline and I met at a charity gala, one of those events where you spend more time avoiding the canapés than eating them. I didn’t know then that I was meeting the person who’d change my life.”
A soft murmur from the table, the sound of practiced admiration. Caroline stared down, her eyes glinting.
“She’s brilliant,” James continued. “Driven. She sees things the rest of us miss. And I’ve learned that being with someone like that, well, it’s humbling.”
A ripple of approval moved through the room.
James caught himself and glanced down at his notes. “Anyway,” he said, voice lighter now, “here’s to my future wife, who has somehow managed to plan a wedding, run a company, and still make it look like she enjoys my company.”
A swell of laughter went around the table, generous and grateful to be told where to land.
