Vanessa adjusted her double strand of cream pearls, her fingers lingering on the center clasp as she tilted her head.
“An Army colonel must make a very comfortable living, Christine,” she said, her voice rising to that sweet, high-pitched register she used for the church ladies.
I held my paper cup of ginger ale and did not drink.
“We have a set pay scale, Vanessa,” I said, keeping my tone level. “It is public record.”
“But with your housing allowance and your command seniority, it must add up.” She smiled, her eyes scanning my plain gray wool suit. “A single woman living in a small rental house like yours must save quite a bit.”
I checked my silver wristwatch. It was exactly three minutes past four.
The wedding reception was winding down in the fellowship hall of the Fayetteville Methodist Church, the scent of white lilies mixing with the damp wool of sixty wet overcoats.
“My salary meets my requirements,” I said.
Vanessa chuckled, a light, musical sound that did not reach her eyes. “Of course. I only ask because Richard is so sensitive about these things, and we want to ensure everyone is secure.”
My father was standing thirty feet away by the cake table, trying to balance a paper plate while talking to the minister.
“My father has his pension,” I said.
“Naturally,” Vanessa said, her fingers moving back to her pearls. “But pensions can be so rigid when life changes, and we have to think about the long term.”
She excused herself to greet a cousin, leaving me by the punch bowl with a dry mouth and an uneasy feeling.
I walked out to the parking lot at half past four, the autumn air smelling of damp pine needles and wet asphalt.
My father was waiting by my old Ford Explorer, his hands shoved deep into his trench coat pockets.
“You leaving so soon, Chrissy?” he asked, his slow Southern drawl dragging out the vowels.
“I have the early shift at Fort Bragg tomorrow, Dad,” I said.
He rubbed his left temple, a gesture he only used when his mind was spinning on something he could not quite align.
Author
