My mother, Eleanor, kept her calligrapher pen perfectly straight as she wrote the addresses on the thick cream envelopes. The dining table was covered in silver sealing wax and printed response cards.
“We need these in the mail by Tuesday afternoon,” she said.
I picked up one of the heavy invitations, the ink still slightly damp under my thumb. The date printed on the heavy cardstock was the second Saturday in November, barely four weeks away.
“Why are we rushing this?” I asked.
My mother did not look up from her address list. “There is no reason to wait when everyone is in agreement.”
I adjusted my silver watch strap, tightening it by one notch against my wrist. “Rosie only agreed to the engagement last week. People will think there is a reason for the haste.”
“Let them think what they wish,” she said.
“Even Ben looked overwhelmed when I saw him yesterday,” I said. “He was quiet, even for him.”
“Ben is a sensible young man,” Eleanor said, finally setting the pen down on the blotter. “He understands his responsibilities.”
I looked at the stack of envelopes, their neat script matching the ledger entries I had seen in her desk. My sister Rosie deserved a long, beautiful engagement, the kind where she could collect pictures of cakes and dream about her dress. This felt like a task being cleared from a desk before the office closed.
“Did Father set this date?” I asked.
Eleanor began stacking the envelopes into a neat pile, her fingers tapping the edges against the mahogany wood. “Your father advised us on the timeline, yes. It is best to have everything finalized before the winter weather begins.”
She did not mention that the weather in Oak Creek was usually mild until after the new year.
“I wanted to help her plan,” I said. “But you have already ordered the cake and hired the caterer.”
“We are sparing you the burden, Clara,” she said.
The back door clicked open, and the sound of Rosie’s slow, deliberate footsteps came from the hallway.
The small room off the church sanctuary smelled of floor polish and old hymnals. Ben stood in front of the oval mirror, his fingers tangled in the knot of his dark tie.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. “Let me help.”
“Thanks,” he said.
I reached up and straightened the silk fabric, my fingers brushing his collar. He did not look at me. Instead, he stared at his own reflection, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders tense.
“You do not have to do this if you are not ready,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“I promised her,” Ben said. He finally looked down at me, his eyes dark with a weight I could not read. “A long time ago, Clara. I told her I would always take care of her.”
He was speaking of the prom night promise, the one he had made in the high school gym when the other boys laughed. He had spent the last fifteen years keeping that quiet vow, never wavering, never looking back.
“Taking care of her is one thing,” I said. “Marriage is different.”
“It is what she wants,” he said. “It is what everyone wants.”
“Is it what you want?”
