“Mrs. Bennett,” he said, “are you all right?”
“No. I need you to tell me whether my cancellation rights still apply to the services that haven’t been completed.”
He was silent for several seconds.
Then he said, “Several do.”
“I want every one of them activated.”
“Mrs. Bennett, if I do that, people will notice almost immediately.”
I looked at the handprint on my face.
“I’m counting on it.”
The manager drew a breath at the other end of the line. I could hear music beginning again somewhere beyond the restroom door, as though a room full of people could simply resume celebrating after watching a woman strike her husband’s mother.
“I need to confirm which services have not yet begun,” he said. “And I need you to understand that some deposits are nonrefundable.”
“I understand,” I answered. “I have paid enough already. Please don’t cancel anything that would leave guests without their meal or stranded at the estate. But every optional service I can lawfully cancel, I want canceled now.”
He named them carefully: the second premium bar period, the late-night food stations, the luxury departure vehicles, the extra lighting effects, the honeymoon-suite upgrade, and the next morning’s private brunch. The band had been paid through the scheduled first set, but the extension had not begun. The ordinary transportation shuttle would remain for anyone who needed it.
“And the guests’ dinner?” I asked again.
“Fully paid, Mrs. Bennett. It will be served as contracted.”
I leaned against the sink, relieved. I wanted to withdraw my generosity, not punish two hundred and fifty people who had arrived expecting a celebration. I confirmed each cancellation and asked him to email a written record. As I was ending the call, he said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you.”
Those words nearly broke me. I had not realized how badly I needed to hear them from someone. I thanked him, washed my face, and looked in the mirror again. The handprint was still there. No amount of cold water made it look less deliberate.
Outside the restroom, Daniel was waiting. He stood beneath a wall sconce with his wedding jacket unbuttoned and both hands shoved into his pockets. When he saw my cheek, the color drained from his face. For a moment I wanted him to cross the hall and hold me the way he had when he was little.
“Mom,” he began, “Tiffany is upset. Can we fix this before people start talking?”
I stepped back so he could not mistake my silence for agreement. “They are already talking, Daniel. Two hundred and fifty people saw her hit me.”
“I know. But if you go in and apologize for the argument, maybe—”
“Apologize for what? Refusing to buy a bottle of champagne? Or letting your wife slap me?”
He lowered his eyes. I had once believed that gesture meant shame. Lately it had meant only that he wanted the difficult part of a conversation to pass without his participation.
“I just don’t want the whole day ruined,” he said.
“Then you should have stopped her from ruining it.”
My phone buzzed with the manager’s confirmation. As I read it, the ballroom doors opened and Tiffany’s father emerged, his tie loosened. “There you are,” he said sharply. “The staff tells us certain services are being canceled. You need to correct that immediately.”
He addressed me as though I were an accounts clerk who had entered the wrong code. Behind him Tiffany appeared, looking furious but immaculate, her gown sweeping the polished floor.
“Tell me you didn’t cancel the afterparty,” she demanded.
“I did,” I said. “And the extra bar service, and the luxury cars, and tomorrow’s brunch. All within the cancellation terms. Dinner remains. The regular shuttle remains. No one is being abandoned.”
Her mouth fell open. “You’re humiliating me!”
I touched my cheek, then dropped my hand. “That feeling didn’t seem to concern you a few minutes ago.”
