Chapter 6 - THE RETREAT HOME
The drive back to our suburban home took forty-five minutes.
The night was cool and clear, the highway glowing under amber streetlights. Brenda sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window at the passing city lights, humming softly to an old radio tune. She didn't know about the flash drive. She didn't know about Vanguard Holdings, the corporate takeover, or the super glue incident in the ballroom.
To her, it had just been a strange, dramatic wedding where the bride’s dress had mysteriously torn, and we had decided to leave early.
“Well,” Brenda said gently, turning to look at me with a soft smile. “It was certainly a memorable wedding. Though I felt a bit bad for Chloe, running off to change her dress like that. And Lucas looked so stressed.”
I reached across the console, taking her warm, gentle hand in mine.
“Don't feel bad for them, Brenda,” I said. “They made their beds. Or, in Chloe’s case... they glued their own chairs.”
Brenda laughed, shaking her head. “You always say the most mysterious things, Arthur.”
When we pulled into our driveway, the house stood dark and peaceful, surrounded by the flower beds Brenda spent her spring mornings tending. It wasn't a sprawling mansion like Briarwood Manor, and it didn't have crystal chandeliers or private antechambers. But it was filled with thirty-five years of genuine love, quiet dignity, and mutual respect—things money could never buy, and arrogance could never build.
As we walked up the front steps, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. It was a text message from Thomas, the Briarwood Manor venue manager.
*Thomas: "Mr. Moretti, the reception has concluded. The guests have departed. Mr. Lucas and Mrs. Chloe attempted to leave without paying the catering balance of $34,000, claiming the venue should cover it due to the 'safety hazard' of the chair. Per your standing instructions, I informed them that the bill has been transferred directly to their personal collections file. They are currently screaming in the parking lot."*
I locked the screen, slid the phone back into my pocket, and unlocked our front door.
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Some lessons are learned with words. Others are learned with super glue, corporate eviction notices, and thirty-four thousand dollars in unpaid catering bills.
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