Not one man at table one said a single word in Gerald’s defense.

Gerald sank slowly into his armchair, his posture collapsing against the dark velvet back.

His right hand hovered over the linen, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched the corner of the pale yellow cashier’s check.

The paper lay beneath the curved stem of his crystal champagne glass, catching the dull amber glow of the chandelier overhead.

Across the room near the stage, Clare and David stood together beside the three-tiered wedding cake, laughing softly as they held the silver knife together.

I stood three feet away from them, my hand resting over the navy clutch purse where my silver rank insignia was tucked away.