Chapter 7 - The Champagne Flute
I had told myself I would not hide again to make other people comfortable. I meant it in the hallway with my hand on the door. It was harder to mean it when I had to walk back into the light.
I stood just outside the ballroom doors for a minute. The music had started again, a low string cover of something that was supposed to sound romantic. Through the narrow glass I could see the tables, the candles, the white flowers nodding under the chandeliers. My wig was still back at our table beside the note. My scalp felt cold in the air conditioning. I touched my earrings to make sure they were still there, then pushed the door open.
No one announced me. That was worse. Heads turned in pieces, one table, then another. A woman near the dance floor stopped mid-sentence and looked at me, then quickly looked away. I kept my pace slow. I had practiced walking into rooms for forty years. This was the first time I did it bald.
Sabrina saw me before Michael did. She was across the room near the cake, her champagne flute held up near her shoulder like a prop. She was talking to Mrs. Delaney and her husband, people from Michael's firm. I was too far to hear, but I could read her face. Smile, tilt of the head, small worried crease between her eyebrows. She touched Mrs. Delaney's arm and glanced in my direction.
Mrs. Delaney glanced over too. Her expression softened into something practiced and pitying. That was when I understood what Sabrina was doing. She wasn't hiding what had happened at the table. She was explaining it before I could.
I changed course and walked toward the bar instead of straight to them. I needed a minute out of the center. The bartender, a young man with a towel over his arm, froze when he saw me.
"Club soda with lime," I said. "Thank you."
He nodded too fast and got to work. Behind me I heard Sabrina laugh, light and bright, and then her voice carrying just enough.
"She's just been overwhelmed today. It's been so emotional for her," she said. "We're giving her space."
Mr. Delaney murmured something sympathetic. Mrs. Delaney said, "Of course. Poor thing." The words landed on my back like hands.
I took my glass and turned. Sabrina had moved on to the photographer near the dance floor. I watched her lean in close to him, still holding that flute. He had his camera down at his side. She spoke low and smiled while she did it, then touched his elbow. He glanced toward me, then back at her, and nodded. He lifted his camera and turned it deliberately toward the dance floor, away from where I stood.
Michael was standing ten feet from them. He'd seen the whole exchange. His hands were in his pockets. His bow tie was a little crooked. Our eyes met for a second. I waited. I didn't lift my chin or shake my head. I just looked at him and let him see that I had heard.
He looked down first. He picked up a glass from a passing tray he didn't drink from. He didn't step toward Sabrina. He didn't step toward me either.
I walked back to our table. The wig sat where I'd left it, silver-gray under the warm light, the note beside it face-up. Congratulations you finally have a hairstyle that suits your age. The heart underneath looked smaller now, meaner. Two women at the next table went quiet as I passed. One of them smiled at me too hard.
"Eleanor, that color is beautiful on you," she said. Her voice shook a little.
"Thank you," I said.
I sat down alone. From there I could see Sabrina working the edge of the room, stopping, smiling, her flute never empty. She stopped by my cousin Diane and said something that made Diane look over at me with her mouth open, then quickly cover it with concern. Diane started to stand, then Sabrina touched her wrist and shook her head gently, as if to say not now.
I sipped my club soda. The bubbles hurt my throat. Across the room, an older man I didn't know stared openly, then whispered to his wife. She shushed him but kept looking.
May you like
Michael finally crossed the floor toward me, but stopped halfway when Sabrina called his name for the first dance. The music shifted. Guests clapped and turned. Sabrina held out her hand to him, radiant and composed, the perfect bride reclaiming her night. Michael looked at me once more, caught between the table and the floor.
I set my glass down and folded my hands on the table beside the wig. I did not look away.
