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It’s almost impossible to believe the waiters and waitresses could be so happy all the time, scurrying around the floor of Gregorian Hall in Manor House, Mason, with plates stacked two or three high on one arm and requesting the guests choose their poisons from a cocktail tray that was balanced on the other. Their faces were glistening with perspiration, and the waitresses’ makeup was beginning to form a dark haze around their eyes instead of perfectly defined lines and wispy eyelashes. They darted in and out of the kitchen and around circular tables gridding the massive floor, serving stone-faced or incessantly chatty guests with false smiles stretched across their features.

The hall was dim, lit by candles and a fireplace on the far side next to the bar, the firelight flickering about all surfaces, casting dark shadows that moved with the flames and resembled monsters crawling along the walls. Gold-colored utensils flashed dangerously in diners’ hands as they sliced away at the supposedly decadent food served, the clink of metal on fine china a very sharp, unwelcomed sound, and the occasional scraping of knife on fork practically screamed in the rumble of idle conversation and sporadic, shrill laughter. The guests’ expressions contorted into sadistic smiles as they sliced and swallowed their words, about the bride and groom, drowning down their pride with brightly colored alcohol as if it wasn’t disease for their hearts.