The caterers had been given their payment the night of the reception, but they failed to bill him for the overage, since the guest list had increased nearly twenty percent. It didn’t matter that many of the guests had immediately left. The food had been ordered, cooked, and served. To whom, Victor couldn’t say.
The florist sent a receipt . . . he’d forgotten how much he wrote the check for.
He glanced at the envelope from a jeweler. It wasn’t the person he’d purchased Corrie’s ring from. He opened the mail and read the receipt. It was for a male wedding band.
Victor looked at his left hand.
Two thousand dollars?
The receipt stated paid in full, but it was in Victor’s name.
He logged into his personal bank site and opened the separate account he’d opened for Corrie to use for wedding expenses. In light of the fact that they weren’t yet married when he opened the temporary account, both their names were tied to it.
Not that she’d put any money in.
Weddings are expensive, she’d told him. If he wanted to be bugged constantly for questions like, “Do we want to add bacon to the salads and pay a dollar more a plate?” then he could stop working every time or just allow Corrie to take care of it.
Having more money than time, Victor cut a check and stepped back.
He looked at the balance on the account.
To her credit, it wasn’t at zero.
No, there was a $23.67 balance.
He compared the jeweler’s name to a check written against the account. Not that he cared to have a two-thousand-dollar wedding band instead of a bride to go with it. The names matched and he pushed the receipt aside.
He’d put twice as much money in the account than was the estimated need, which had him digging.
Early checks were written in deposit, some were posted the day of the botched wedding . . . and it appeared some were still due.
He skimmed the list, trying to muster up a little anger that he was paying for something he didn’t get. Although when you thought about it, he did get what he’d paid for. He paid for flowers, he saw them. He paid for food, his guests ate it. The bar bill . . . yeah, he’d gotten his money on that. He also paid for Corrie’s friends to fly to Mexico and their stay in the hotels. Even his friends refused him when he offered to pay their way.
What did he expect? Corrie was fifteen years younger than he.
He found Shannon Wentworth Photography and a check written for one thousand dollars.
Now, call him naive, but he didn’t think for one minute that was her total fee for flying to Mexico to be their photographer. And yet there wasn’t a second bill in the pack that he was sifting through.
He smiled at his resourcefulness as he picked up the phone.
Shannon answered on the second ring. “You’re seventy-five days early,” she said instead of hello.
Victor sat back in his office chair and propped his feet up on his desk. “Do you have a countdown clock like people use when they’re excited about a major life event?”
“Are you suggesting a phone call from you is a major life event?”
He heard laughter in her voice.
“Hello, Shannon.”
She sighed. “Hello, Victor.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I called?”
“No. I’m sure you’ll get around to it.”
She made him smile. “You sound good. Did I catch you at a decent time?”
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Oh my God, Victor . . . yes. It’s a good time. Why are you calling?”
He could see her eyes narrowing, her lips pulling into thin lines. “Miss Annoyed is back. I kinda liked her.”
“Victor!” His name was a warning.
“Okay, okay, I actually did have a reason other than wanting to hear your voice.”
She paused. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its edge. “What’s your reason?”
“I think I owe you money.”
“Excuse me?”
He glanced at the pile on his desk. “I’m going through the wedding bills, and all I see is a deposit for the photographer.”
“Oh, that. Uhmm . . .”
“Shannon?”
“I don’t expect to get paid for something I didn’t do.”
“You flew all the way to Mexico for a job. You deserve to get paid for your time.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
He kicked his feet off the desk, reached for a pen. “How much?”