They had watched my son laugh.
And now they were watching me decide whether money mattered more than dignity.
So I lifted the paper in my hand.
“This is the final invoice,” I said.
Vanessa’s father frowned.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
I folded the paper once.
“I’m telling you.”
I looked at Vanessa.
“The Whitmore family is not paying another dollar.”
Her mouth fell open.
“You can’t do that.”
“I already did.”
Daniel stared at me.
“Dad…”
“The deposits we made are already paid. The money is gone. The flowers are here. The food is here. The musicians are here. The venue has been paid.”
I paused.
“But the remaining balance is not.”
Vanessa’s face went pale.
“How much?”
I glanced at the invoice.
“Twenty-three thousand, four hundred and eighty dollars.”
A collective gasp moved through the garden.
Richard Caldwell turned toward his daughter.
“Vanessa?”
She didn’t answer.
He looked at Daniel.
“Daniel, what is this?”
Daniel rubbed the back of his neck.
“It’s complicated.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
I held up the invoice.
“You wanted the estate. You wanted the upgraded flowers. You wanted the champagne. You wanted the twelve-piece band. You wanted the fireworks after dinner. You wanted the custom cake flown in from Savannah.”
