Chương 3
She almost answered him out of habit.
Instead, she looked at the folded medical envelope on the floor.
Mr. Perez followed her gaze and bent to retrieve it. He did not open it. He handed it to her with both hands, then collected the keys and placed them on the small table beside the doorway. His carefulness embarrassed her more than the staring guests had.
“Thank you,” she said.
Eleanor stepped forward. “No one is detaining you. We are asking reasonable questions about missing documents.”
“Your exact words were that my phone would be retained.”
“Because you possess confidential material.”
“Because you wanted it deleted.”
Adrian whispered her name.
Livia turned on him. “Did you put the card in my bag?”
His answer came too quickly. “No.”
“Did you know someone would?”
His eyes shifted toward Eleanor.
That was enough.
A contraction—or something close to one—tightened low across Livia’s abdomen. Her physician had told her the difference would be obvious when it mattered. At the time, Livia had disliked the vagueness. She disliked it more now.
She pressed her palm against the satin of her gown and counted silently.
The room seemed to recede. Warm light, blue-gray curtains, white flowers, gold fabric, black tuxedos. Adrian said something she did not catch. Camille was arguing with Nathan. Eleanor was telling Mr. Perez to clear the ballroom.
The tightening eased.
Livia opened her eyes.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
Adrian stepped toward her. “I’ll take you.”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t drive.”
“She won’t,” said a voice from the guests.
Dr. Naomi Bell emerged from the crowd in a dark green evening dress, carrying her shoes in one hand. She was a violist from the chamber orchestra and the only person at the reception who knew Livia had spent an hour at her obstetrician’s office that morning after experiencing several days of irregular tightening. Naomi was not an obstetrician. She had completed two years of medical school before choosing music, which meant everyone in the orchestra consulted her about symptoms and then ignored her advice.
Naomi looked at Livia’s face. “Was that one?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long?”
“Maybe thirty seconds.”
“Then we’re not having this conversation in a doorway.”
Eleanor moved to intercept them. Nathan stepped between his mother and Livia.
It was the first decisive thing he had done all evening.
“Let her go.”
Eleanor stared at him.
Nathan swallowed. His hand shook once before he pushed it into his trouser pocket. “Whatever else happens, she leaves.”
Camille looked at her husband as though he had embarrassed her in front of strangers. “Our reception is not ending because she made a recording.”
Nathan did not look back. “Our reception ended when you opened her bag.”
Livia walked away before anyone could turn his sentence into another performance.
Naomi kept one hand near Livia’s elbow without touching it. They crossed the marble lobby, passed the champagne tower, and moved beneath the enormous arrangement of white roses that Camille had rejected twice before approving. Livia knew the cost of those roses. She knew the invoice number, the account from which the deposit had been paid, and the name of the twelve-year-old cellist whose summer scholarship had been postponed on the same date.
Outside, rain had left the pavement slick and shining. The air smelled of wet stone and the exhaust from idling town cars. Naomi handed her shoes to a valet and helped Livia into the passenger seat of her own gray station wagon.
“You’re taking me to the hospital,” Livia said.
“I’m taking you wherever your doctor tells us.”
“My violin is inside.”
Naomi stared at her.
“It’s in the green room.”
“Your future mother-in-law just framed you for theft.”
“Former future mother-in-law.”
“Good. Your violin can survive ten minutes.”
Livia leaned her head against the seat. “It doesn’t like humidity.”
Naomi closed the door harder than necessary.
The joke had come out without planning. Livia was grateful for it. It occupied the space where panic might otherwise have settled.
Naomi retrieved the violin. While she was gone, Livia called the after-hours number on the medical envelope. She answered questions about pain, fluid, bleeding, fetal movement, and frequency. The nurse told her to come in for monitoring because of the stress and because Livia’s chart contained a note about a shortened cervix discovered at her last scan. She repeated that everything might be fine. She repeated it in the steady voice of someone who understood that reassurance was most useful when it did not pretend certainty.
Livia ended the call and saw thirty-seven notifications on her screen.
Mara had sent one message.
Audio delivered. Do not post anything. Call me from a safe place.
Adrian had sent six.
Please let me explain.
I did not put the card there.
You need to tell me where you are.
Please answer.
Livia.
Please.
She turned the phone facedown on her lap.
Naomi returned carrying the violin case and Livia’s silver wrap, which she had apparently taken from the back of a chair. She placed both in the rear seat and climbed behind the wheel.
“Your fiancé tried to stop me.”
“What did you say?”
“That I would drive over his foot.”
“Would you?”
“No. It’s a rented tuxedo. Blood would complicate the deposit.”
They pulled away from Rowan House.
Through the window, Livia saw guests gathering beneath the awning, phones glowing in their hands. She saw Mr. Perez speaking to two uniformed police officers near the service entrance. She saw Nathan standing alone just inside the glass doors, his white pocket square bright against his tuxedo. Behind him, Camille’s veil passed through the lobby and disappeared.
Adrian came outside as Naomi turned onto the avenue.
May you like
He did not run after the car. He stood beneath the awning, rain blowing across his shoulders, and watched them leave.
At the hospital, Livia changed into a gown that tied badly at the back and lay beneath fluorescent lights while two monitors recorded the baby’s heartbeat and the tightening of her uterus. Naomi sat in a vinyl chair eating crackers from a packet she found in her purse. A muted television showed a local news anchor speaking above footage of traffic.
