Chapter 4 - The Unopened Box
Arthur Vance froze, half-standing, half-sitting, his smile instantly curdling into confusion. "Pardon me?"
"You are sitting in the seat reserved for the mother of the groom," Marcus said. His voice was level, carry-over clear, the voice of a man who had commanded boardrooms across the country. "My mother, Beverly Okafor. You and your family will please gather your things and move to the back."
A dead hush fell across the immediate vicinity. The band, noticing the disturbance near the front stage, let their tempo wind down until only the soft, awkward brush of the snare drum remained, before stopping altogether.
Celeste rushed in behind us, breathless, her face flushed crimson under her bridal makeup. "Marcus, stop this! Father, don't move. Marcus has had too much to drink."
"I haven't had a single drop of alcohol today," Marcus said, turning his gaze on her. "You took my mother's place card and threw it away. You put her in row twenty-eight. You told her she didn't fit the aesthetic. Well, this is my table. Half of this entire evening was paid for by the savings account my father left behind—the life insurance James Okafor earned by working thirty-five years at the postal distribution center."
Gasps rippled through the guests at neighboring tables. Several of Marcus’s colleagues from his marketing agency leaned forward, eyes wide.
"Marcus," Celeste hissed, stepping into his space, her eyes wild with panic. "Do not do this in front of my father's partners. Have you lost your mind?"
"Where is her gift, Celeste?" Marcus demanded.
Celeste flinched. "What?"
"When my mother arrived, where did her gift go? I saw the table. There were envelopes and registry items from Bloomingdale's and Tiffany. Where did you tell the coordinator to put the packages that didn't come from the registry?"
A young woman in a black headset—the wedding planner who had swept past me hours earlier—froze at the side of the stage, her clipboard pressed against her chest like a riot shield.
Marcus pointed at her. "Miss Evans. Bring me the box that my mother brought in."
The woman looked terrified, casting a desperate glance at Celeste, who shook her head vigorously.
"Bring it here," Marcus commanded, his voice ringing through the silent ballroom. "Now."
Miss Evans swallowed hard, hurried behind the curtain of the bandstand, and returned within thirty seconds carrying a modest, square box wrapped in cream-colored paper with a simple satin burgundy ribbon. It had been stashed behind the audio equipment, out of sight.
She handed it to Marcus with a trembling apology.
Marcus placed the box on the white tablecloth directly in front of Arthur Vance. The paper had a slight smudge on the corner from being shoved behind the speakers. Marcus looked down at the handwriting on the tag: *To Marcus and Celeste, with all my love and prayers for a holy life together. Mom.*
"Open it," Marcus said to Celeste.
"Marcus, this is absurd—"
"Open it, Celeste. Or I will open it myself."
With trembling, furious fingers, Celeste stepped forward. The silence in the ballroom was absolute. Three hundred people held their breath. She pulled the burgundy ribbon. She peeled back the cream paper. Inside was a simple, handcrafted wooden box lined with blue velvet.
Inside the velvet lay three items: a handwritten recipe book bound in worn brown leather, containing seventy years of family history; a small, tarnished silver compass that had belonged to Marcus’s grandfather during the Korean War; and an envelope containing three thousand dollars in cashier's checks—the entirety of my summer tutoring earnings, meant to help them furnish their new living room.
May you like
Marcus picked up the letter resting on top of the recipe book. He looked at the first few lines, and his throat worked convulsively.
***
