Chương 3
Natalie called it weakness when we were teenagers.
Grant had apparently built a financial strategy around it.
I looked through the opening chapel doors.
Grant stood at the altar beneath white flowers, handsome and composed, waiting for the woman he believed he had already defeated.
My hand moved over the small curve of my stomach.
“No,” I told my mother.
Her fingers tightened.
Then I looked at Jenna beside the sound booth.
“But I’m going in anyway.” fileciteturn0file0
The coordinator mistook my answer for bridal nerves and gave me the brisk, sympathetic smile of someone who had shepherded too many frightened women toward expensive decisions.
“Good,” she said.
“Because we’re moving.”
My mother’s hand remained wrapped around mine.
She was watching me now instead of the chapel.
I slipped my fingers free.
“Mom, I need you inside.”
“I’m supposed to walk with you.”
“Uncle Robert will.”
Robert’s head turned toward me.
My mother actually laughed.
It was a small, startled sound.
“Excuse me?”
“I want Uncle Robert to walk me.”
The color left her face slowly.
Natalie looked from her to me.
“Claire, what are you doing?”
I adjusted the edge of my veil where it had caught beneath one pearl earring.
“I’m getting married.”
My mother lowered her voice.
“Your father would have wanted me beside you.”
The sentence found the oldest bruise available.
For eighteen months, any disagreement in our family had eventually reached Dad.
What Dad would have wanted.
What Dad would have hated.
What Dad had worked for.
The dead were useful because they never interrupted.
“Maybe,” I said.
Her mouth tightened.
“Maybe?”
Robert cleared his throat.
“Diane.”
“No, Robert.”
She did not look at him.
“This is between my daughter and me.”
“That’s exactly why you should go sit down.”
Her eyes snapped toward him.
He rarely challenged her in public.
My father used to joke that Robert could negotiate a grain contract with a hurricane but would leave a room rather than argue with his sister-in-law about dinner reservations.
Today he did not leave.
“Please,” he said.
That word changed something.
My mother looked at the gray folder in my hand.
Then at Paul.
Then at Jenna.
“What happened?”
I could have told her.
Part of me wanted to.
I wanted to see the precise instant her face confirmed whether Grant had lied about her involvement.
But Natalie was standing three feet away.
And Grant was inside with two hundred guests and no idea that the next several minutes no longer belonged to him.
“Go sit down, Mom.”
“Claire.”
“If you love me, go sit down.”
Her expression hardened at the use of her own weapon.
For years, love in our family had been measured by endurance.
If you loved someone, you stayed through the uncomfortable dinner.
You accepted the apology that did not quite contain regret.
You kept quiet until Christmas was over.
You smiled for photographs because there would be time to feel things later.
Apparently later had finally arrived.
My mother released a slow breath through her nose.
“Fine.”
Natalie touched her arm.
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.”
The word came from me.
Natalie turned.
“You stay.”
Her face changed again.
This time she did not recover quickly enough.
The coordinator looked between us.
“Is there a family issue I need to know about?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” my mother said at the same time.
The coordinator closed her eyes for half a second.
Robert almost smiled.
I would have laughed under any other circumstances.
Instead I handed him the gray folder.
“Keep this.”
He took it without opening it.
My mother stared at my face as though she could force an explanation into existence.
Then she walked into the chapel alone.
The doors remained open just long enough for me to see heads turn toward her.
Grant leaned slightly to one side at the altar.
He had expected me behind her.
He saw Robert instead.
Even from the hallway, I could tell he noticed the folder.
The doors closed.
Natalie folded her arms.
“All right.”
Her voice had lost its softness.
“What is this?”
“Wedding logistics.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk to me like I’m stupid.”
A strange pressure built behind my ribs.
Three years.
She had spent three years sleeping with the man who came home to my bed, and she was offended that I might insult her intelligence.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She stared at me.
“Did you hear something?”
There it was.
Not Did something happen.
Not Are you upset.
Did you hear something.
My answer must have shown in my face.
Natalie’s shoulders lowered.
Only an inch.
Enough.
“What did you hear?”
The hallway seemed suddenly too quiet.
The quartet had begun another piece inside, muffled through the doors.
Somewhere behind us a hotel employee pushed a cart across tile, glassware knocking gently together.
I looked at my sister.
“Why are you asking?”
“Because you’re acting insane.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You disappeared, you summoned Dad’s lawyer, and now you’re switching who walks you down the aisle.”
“Our dad.”
“What?”
“You said Dad’s lawyer.”
“He was my father too.”
Natalie blinked.
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
The ugliness of the question sat between us.
I regretted it immediately.
Not because she did not deserve my anger.
Because our father did not deserve to be dragged into this as a weapon.
I looked away.
Natalie saw the retreat and moved closer.
“Claire, listen to me.”
“No.”
“Whatever you think you heard—”
I turned back.
She stopped.
Neither of us moved.
Her next breath was shallow.
I had confirmation now.
Not evidence anyone else could use.
Something more personal.
She knew exactly what room I had been near and exactly what there had been to hear.
“Interesting sentence,” I said.
“Don’t.”
“Whatever I think I heard?”
“You know how Grant gets about business.”
“No, tell me.”
“He talks big.”
“About what?”
“Claire.”
May you like
“About what, Natalie?”
Her eyes slid toward the chapel doors.
