Two hundred fifty guests turned from Gerald to look at me at table twenty-two.

Gerald pushed back his armchair so fast the polished wooden legs screeched against the parquet floor.

He strode down the center aisle toward the sound desk near the kitchen doors, where Howard stood holding a black clipboard.

“Turn that microphone off right now,” Gerald said.

Howard did not touch the equipment.

He kept both hands flat against his hips.

“Mr.

Ulette, the microphone belongs to the bride,” Howard said.