Shelly turned to Corinne. “Hi, Ma,” she chirped.
The graying mother sniffed, her eyebrows arched as she inspected the stranger sitting so casually next to her daughter. Though Shelly had long flown the nest, the incessant public disturbances that she frequently caused with her disruptive personality irritated Corinne. The trait came from the children’s father, gone seven years now, destination unknown. It was one out of dozens of things that strained the relationship between mother and daughter.
“Rochelle Grace. Who’s your, ah, friend?”
The full name. Not even a hello. Yet Shelly said and did nothing to even acknowledge the subtle chastisement. Instead, the uninvited guest stretched across both Shelly and Omar to offer Corinne a creamy hand.
“Good morning, Mrs. Banner,” he said, his voice deep with age and maturity. “My name is Nathan Greene. Pleasure to meet you.”
Stunned, Corinne stiffened, yet allowed the young man to shake her hand.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” she managed to stammer in response.
Before she got a chance to utter any more words of passive aggressive nature, the familiar notes of “Canon in D” floated from the surround-sound speakers, and the five bridesmaids, clad in identical antique gold gowns, sashayed past the pews. Venomous gossip sat on the sidelines for a moment as everyone concentrated on the flower girl and ring bearer, Megan strewing yellow rose petals on the ground as they walked towards the altar.
And then, of course, the bride. Flanked by her father, stunning in a simple white dress and bawling, Janelle Kerry Banner progressed down the aisle towards her destiny.
Later, at the reception at the Crown Hills Hotel, no one denied the beauty of the ceremony. The floral and fabric decorations made the dingy sanctuary look more like a cathedral. Both of Janelle and Ray’s crumpled faces, too much in love to keep from tearing up during their ring exchange, made some of the elders cough to cover up the sounds of their own nostalgic sobs.
“And that solo!” they all raved about Yolanda’s vocal rendition of “Ribbon in the Sky.” Everyone’s eyes misted as she held one of the final notes, pointing to the weeping couple. “A classic touch,” they said, “impossible to rival.” A bit cliché, they had to admit, yet perfect and necessary for the occasion. At least she hadn’t sung something inappropriate, like “I’ll Make Love to You,” like Tracy Jones’ did at her son’s wedding last year. “Some people just have no class,” they chided, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues in disapproval.
