Chương 6
“Don’t,” Elena said.
Margaret’s hand stopped on the cord.
“I don’t want to feel hidden.”
Margaret released it.
The phone rang a third time, but the screen showed Vivian’s name.
Elena let it ring.
When it stopped, a voicemail notification appeared.
Margaret said, “You do not have to listen.”
“I know.”
Elena played it on speaker.
Vivian’s voice filled the kitchen, warm and faintly impatient.
“Elena, darling, I’m sure this afternoon has become larger than anyone intended. Adrian is deeply worried about you. We have asked the staff to be discreet, though of course people notice when a bride leaves her own fitting. Please call me before speculation begins. There are ways to handle difficult private moments, but silence allows others to invent stories. Your mother understands that.”
The message ended.
Elena looked across the table. “Do you?”
Margaret stared at the phone.
The old answer would have been yes. She had spent thirty years handling difficult private moments. Daniel’s illness had been private until donors needed to know. The foundation’s debt had been private until a newspaper obtained the tax filings. Her grief had been private except when public sorrow encouraged generosity.
Privacy, in Margaret’s world, often meant choosing who was permitted to profit from the truth.
“I understand why she said it,” she replied.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
Elena waited.
Margaret sat down. “I don’t know whether I understand anymore.”
The phone lit with another message. This one came from the wedding planner.
Checking in with love. No pressure. Need final confirmation for tomorrow’s rehearsal transportation by 6 p.m.
Elena turned the phone face down.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Five twenty.”
“I left Bellamy House less than an hour ago.”
“It feels longer.”
“It feels like I’ve ruined something that hasn’t even happened.”
“You have not ruined it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know a wedding can be canceled.”
“That isn’t the only thing.”
Margaret looked at the blue folder.
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
At five thirty-five, Elena agreed to call a physician she knew through the museum. Dr. Simone Patel had treated her for migraines for years and maintained a small internal-medicine practice in the city. She listened without interruption, then told Elena to come after office hours.
Margaret drove.
Elena insisted on going inside alone.
Margaret sat in the waiting room beneath a television showing a cooking program with the sound off. A man in work boots slept with his arms crossed. The receptionist ate almonds one at a time and kept the bag folded inside her desk drawer between bites.
Forty minutes passed.
Margaret resisted sending a message for thirty-eight of them.
When Elena emerged, she carried a plain white envelope.
“What did she say?” Margaret asked.
“That the marks are superficial. Painful, but nothing is broken.”
“Did she document them?”
“Yes.”
“Photographs?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ask how it happened?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
Margaret stood.
Elena’s face closed. “Do not look proud.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m relieved.”
“It looks the same on you.”
They walked to the elevator.
Inside, Elena leaned against the mirrored wall. “She gave me information for an advocate.”
“Will you call?”
“I don’t know.”
Margaret nodded.
“Stop being agreeable,” Elena said. “It makes me nervous.”
“I’m trying not to direct you.”
“You can still have an opinion.”
“I have several.”
“That’s more normal.”
The elevator doors opened.
In the parking garage, Elena stopped beside the car. “I want to go back.”
Margaret’s body reacted before her voice did. Her hand closed around the keys.
“To Bellamy House?”
“No. To the apartment.”
Elena and Adrian had rented a furnished apartment in the city while renovations continued on a house near the river. Margaret had never liked the apartment. Everything inside it was gray, including the art.
“Why?” she asked.
“My laptop is there. My work files. Clothes. My passport.”
“We can arrange to collect them.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“With whom?”
Margaret had no answer.
“Elena, tonight is not the night.”
“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow with nothing I chose to bring.”
“You have clothes at my house.”
“Clothes you bought.”
“That is not the point.”
“It is a little bit the point.”
Margaret unlocked the car but did not open the door.
“Will Adrian be there?” she asked.
“He’s at Bellamy House.”
“How do you know?”
“He sent a photograph to the wedding party ten minutes ago.”
Elena showed her the screen. Adrian stood on the south terrace with his best man and two groomsmen, raising a glass beside rows of white chairs. The caption read: Minor bridal emergency. All is well. See everyone tomorrow.
Margaret stared at the words.
“He is telling them you are fine.”
“He is telling them he is fine.”
“Both.”
Elena put away the phone. “I want my things.”
Margaret looked across the garage at a woman loading groceries into an SUV. A carton of eggs slipped from one bag. The woman caught it against her hip and swore.
Ordinary life continued with offensive confidence.
“I’ll go with you,” Margaret said.
“Not inside.”
“I am not waiting in the car.”
“Then don’t come.”
Margaret’s temper moved through her like heat. “You cannot expect me to—”
“I can ask.”
“You can ask anything. That does not mean I will agree.”
Elena folded her arms. “There you are.”
Margaret shut her eyes.
When she opened them, Elena looked tired rather than defiant.
“What would make it feel safe?” Margaret asked.
Elena considered.
“You wait in the lobby,” she said. “I call when I’m inside. I keep the door open while I pack. If he comes, I leave.”
“I want the doorman to know.”
“Fine.”
“And we set a time.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen.”
“Elena gave her a look.”
“Eighteen,” Margaret said.
It was ridiculous. It was also a decision Elena had made, negotiated rather than surrendered. Margaret accepted it.
May you like
At the apartment building, the doorman recognized Elena and greeted her with visible relief.
“Mr. Bellamy called,” he said. “He said you might come by.”
