Colby leaned close to his aunt and said, quietly, “Aunt Delphine, put every tray back, and then come inside and apologize to Mrs. Hayes.” Delphine’s smile stiffened. “Honey, I only took what would spoil,” she said. “No,” he answered, still calm. “You took what Bride’s mother cooked for four days, and you took it from her on her daughter’s wedding night.” He lifted the first tray out of the Yukon himself, and the foil crackled in the warm August dark.

Together, we carried the food toward the band’s vehicle. The musicians, six of them now sitting on the tailgate, gratefully held out paper plates. Colby stayed beside his aunt, holding the rolls, until she finally lifted one tray herself, her shoulders sagging. Then a voice came from the reception doors. “What in the world is going on out here?” It was my mother, her eyes wide, still in her lavender dress and flushed from dancing.