“Being the king is a tough job. My late husband, Morty, may he rest in peace, he ran a carpeting business, he was the Broadloom King of Ronkonkoma out on Long Island, so it was a similar responsibility, only it was maybe even harder, because I bet no one ever asks you for a fifteen percent friends and family discount on wall-to-wall in a wool/nylon blend, am I right?”

“That’s very true.”

“So let’s cut to the chase. Eddie—can I call you Eddie? You’re a nice-looking fellow, and you’re gay, which I think is just dandy, and do you know why? Because my first cousin Frieda was a lesbian, she flew cargo jets in World War II, because they wouldn’t let her into combat, and then she lived with her ladyfriend, this pretty young schoolteacher, until the day she died. They couldn’t have been happier, and when somebody would make a remark, I would tell them, so Frieda wears slacks, just like Katharine Hepburn, what’s it to you? So when Carter told me he was gay, do you know what I said? I told him, Carter, since you were five years old you’ve kept a scrapbook of table settings, do you think I’m blind? And Eddie, look at you, you’re single, you have a nice career ahead of you, you’re English, but I’m not holding that against you, I enjoy English people, I dated Churchill, I’m kidding, I don’t date married men, but let me ask you, and I’m talking about your relationship with Carter—what are your intentions?”

This question was exactly why I’d worried about bringing Edgar to the wedding, both because it was wildly unfair to put Edgar on the spot and because I was longing to hear his answer. Edgar’s session with Abby had been intense, but this was Final Jeopardy. So I jumped in, exclaiming, “Miriam! It’s so great to see you, and have you heard that they’re about to distribute the centerpieces?”

Miriam’s face twitched, because during the waning moments of the reception, all guests would lift their dinner plates, seeking a parchment card embossed with the happy couple’s initials. This card entitled the owner to claim their table’s elaborate floral centerpiece and they’d later carry it to be stowed in the trunk of their car. Arriving early for just this purpose, Miriam had already moved the card from beneath the plate of an outlying niece to her own, because, as she’d told my mom, “I’m sure that Lauren would want me to have the centerpiece, because it would look terrible with all of her IKEA furniture, which I’m not criticizing, but why does she want to live in a Swedish dorm room?”