Part 4
Still, when she saw the child, her eyes widened.
“Mr. Harrow,” she said, then stopped. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” Mason said.
Mrs. Vann looked toward Celeste.
Celeste held herself very still.
“There was a child locked in this room,” she said.
The manager’s expression shifted from confusion to alarm.
“That room should not be locked.”
“It was.”
“I’ll find out who accessed it.”
Mason looked at Wren.
The girl’s cheek was pressed against his collarbone. She was listening to every word.
“Quietly,” he said. “Please.”
Mrs. Vann nodded.
“We can move everyone from the courtyard into the dining hall,” she said. “They can be served drinks while we sort this out.”
Celeste looked toward the ceremony space.
A small group of her friends had gathered near the floral arch. Her mother stood among them in a pale blue evening dress, one hand pressed to her chest. Mason’s brother, Elliot, had crossed his arms and positioned himself near the aisle as if physical size could protect the family from embarrassment.
Mason knew that look on Elliot’s face.
It meant he was already angry at someone.
Maybe Mason.
Maybe Celeste.
Maybe the child.
That was the thing about public disruption. Everyone wanted a villain before they had facts.
“No announcements,” Mason said. “No explanations.”
Mrs. Vann looked at Wren again.
“Of course.”
Celeste spoke before the manager could leave.
“Ask the guests to remain on the grounds for a little while, if they can. Tell them there’s been a family emergency.”
Mason turned toward her.
Celeste did not look at him.
Mrs. Vann nodded once and disappeared into the courtyard.
For a moment, the three of them stood in the narrow corridor.
Wren whispered, “Will they be mad?”
Mason looked down at her.
“Who?”
“The people.”
He thought of the guests. Of the whispers. Of the wedding that had become a crisis in less than five minutes.
“They’re not important right now,” he said.
Celeste glanced at him.
The expression on her face made him understand that the sentence had more than one meaning.
He had said the guests were not important.
But Celeste was.
The wedding was.
The life they had been about to begin was.
And he had no idea how to hold those truths beside a child who might be his daughter.
He crouched slowly, though Wren refused to release him. He adjusted his grip so that he could carry her more securely.
“Wren,” he said. “Can you show me where your mom put your things?”
The girl looked toward the settee.
“My bag.”
A small champagne-colored backpack sat half-hidden behind the velvet bench. Mason saw it only after she pointed. It had a faded rabbit keychain attached to the zipper and one embroidered flower on the front pocket.
Celeste walked toward it, then stopped three feet away.
“Would you like me to get it?” she asked.
Wren looked at Mason.
He nodded gently.
“It’s okay.”
The child hesitated.
Then gave the smallest nod.
Celeste bent down and picked up the backpack. Her hands were careful. She did not open it. She simply carried it back and held it out.
Wren reached for it without letting go of Mason.
Celeste’s hand brushed the child’s fingers for less than a second.
Wren flinched.
Celeste pulled back immediately.
The reaction was small. Almost nothing.
But Mason saw pain cross Celeste’s face.
He hated himself for seeing it.
He hated that he could understand the child’s fear and Celeste’s humiliation at the same time, and that neither truth made the other easier.
Wren hugged the backpack against Mason’s chest.
“Mommy said I had a letter,” she whispered.
Mason looked at her.
“Where is it?”
The child opened the front pocket. Inside were crayons, a folded tissue, a small plastic horse, and a photograph with worn edges. She took out the picture.
It showed a woman sitting on a park bench beside Wren when she was younger.
The woman had dark brown hair pulled back loosely. She wore a green coat and had one arm around the child’s shoulders.
Mason knew her before he saw her face clearly.
Nora Bell.
Time had changed her in the photograph. Her face was thinner than he remembered. There were lines near her mouth that had not existed seven years earlier. But she still had the same serious eyes and the same half-smile that appeared only when she thought someone was being ridiculous.
Mason took the photograph with unsteady fingers.
Celeste watched him.
“You know her,” she said.
He did not answer right away.
Wren looked between them.
“That’s Mommy.”
May you like
Mason stared at Nora’s face.
The last time he had seen her, she had been standing near the door of their old apartment with rainwater darkening the shoulders of her coat. He had been packing for New York. She had asked him to stay for one more day.
