Part 2
Lila has such big feelings. She may need firmer guidance.
Julian is under enough pressure without being asked to choose sides.
Tonight, though, Beatrice’s face did not soften.
“Your daughter has ruined a perfectly good plate,” she said.
Camille stared at her.
Then she looked down at the broken porcelain.
The plate had not been near Lila’s hands. It had been placed too close to the edge of the table after Beatrice had rearranged the flowers. Camille had seen the older woman’s elbow catch the linen seconds before the plate slid. It had happened quickly, almost too quickly to notice.
But she had seen it.
“You knocked it,” Camille said.
Beatrice’s hands remained on Lila’s shoulders.
“That is not what happened.”
“It is exactly what happened.”
A faint murmur traveled through the guests.
Not words. Just breath and movement. A chair shifted. Someone set a glass down too carefully. The ballroom’s social order had been built around avoiding moments like this, around pretending that rich families did not have the same injuries as everyone else.
Beatrice looked at Camille as if she had become someone unfamiliar.
“You are making this worse.”
“No,” Camille said. “You are.”
Lila tried to pull away.
Beatrice’s hands held fast.
The child’s shoes slipped slightly against the polished floor. Her bow twisted at the back of her dress. She made a small frightened sound, and Beatrice, impatient now, pulled her forward as if correcting her posture.
Lila lost her balance.
The movement was not dramatic at first. Her knee buckled. One small hand reached for the tablecloth and missed it. Then she fell backward onto the wooden floor beside the scattered food.
The sound of her body hitting the floor was softer than the plate had been.
It was somehow worse.
Her dress spread around her in a pale circle. One knee bent beneath her. Her palms pressed against the floor. She stared ahead for a second as if she could not understand why she was down there.
Then she began to cry.
The sound came from deep inside her, raw and frightened. It broke apart around every breath. She curled forward, one hand covering her face.
Camille was beside her immediately.
Her clutch fell somewhere behind her. She dropped to her knees on the polished floor without looking at the food or the broken porcelain or the guests who were watching. Her hands went to Lila’s face.
“Baby. Look at me.”
Lila shook her head.
“Lila, look at me.”
The girl’s cheeks were wet. Her lower lip trembled so hard she could barely speak.
“I didn’t break it,” she cried. “Mommy, I didn’t break it.”
“I know.”
“She got mad.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“I saw.”
Camille held her daughter’s face gently between both hands, turning her head slightly to check her cheek, her chin, the skin near her temple. There was no blood. No obvious bruise. But Lila’s skin had gone pale beneath the warm ballroom light, and her shoulders were shaking so hard that her bow quivered behind her.
Camille pressed one hand against Lila’s hair.
“You are safe,” she said.
The words came out steadier than she felt.
“You are safe with me.”
Behind them, Beatrice stood motionless.
The older woman’s expression had shifted into something colder than anger. She seemed offended by the fact that everyone had stopped pretending. Her eyes traveled across the guests, taking in the lowered gazes, the tense faces, the silent judgment.
Then she looked toward Julian.
He stood across from them in his tuxedo, near the head table.
For most of the evening, Julian had looked like the man everyone expected him to be. Tall, polished, composed. He had welcomed guests, thanked relatives, held Camille’s hand for photographs. He had kissed Lila on the forehead before dinner and told her she looked beautiful.
Now his jaw was tight.
His hands were at his sides.
He had not moved.
Camille saw him standing there and felt a second pain open beneath the first.
Not because he looked indifferent.
He did not.
His face held too much feeling for indifference. Guilt sat in his eyes. Anger sat there too. Confusion. Fear. The old reflex to smooth things over before they became permanent.
But he was still standing.
Lila was still on the floor.
Beatrice was still above them.
And Julian had not said a word.
Camille drew Lila against her chest.
Her daughter clutched the front of Camille’s gown with both hands. Her face pressed into the fabric over Camille’s heart. Camille wrapped one arm around the girl’s shoulders and placed the other hand protectively over the back of her head.
The room had gone so quiet that Camille could hear Lila’s breathing.
May you like
Fast. Uneven. Wet with tears.
She could hear the faint sound of someone shifting in their chair across the room. She could hear the soft clink of a fork settling against china at one of the tables.
