hour earlier: a spray of white roses, crystal candleholders, a musician tuning a violin, and the edge of a cream invitation embossed in gold.
Bellmere House.
Nora stared at the screen until the words stopped shaking.
Bellmere House was the old Harrington estate on the north side of Ashbourne, restored into an event property with a ballroom, conservatory, and lawn that overlooked the river. She had seen pictures in the local magazine while waiting at the dentist.
Twenty-three minutes away.
She almost went home.
The thought came softly, almost kindly. Spare yourself. Let him have what he wants. Do not walk into a room where no one expects your face.
Then she imagined him looking around later and feeling relieved that the lie had worked.
No.
She started the car.
The rain thickened as she drove. Wipers slapped back and forth with a desperate rhythm. Headlights smeared across wet roads. Twice she took wrong turns because her hands would not stop trembling, and once she had to pull over near a pharmacy because she could not catch her breath.
She thought of turning around again.
Instead she picked up the paper bag from the passenger seat, pressed it to her chest, and whispered, “Not tonight.”
Bellmere House rose behind iron gates and lit magnolias like a place from another century. Cars lined the drive—black sedans, polished SUVs, one long antique roadster dressed in ivory ribbon. Men in dark coats directed traffic beneath umbrellas. Warm gold light glowed from tall windows. Somewhere inside, strings played a melody she recognized but could not name.
Nora drove past the valet stand when the attendant did not move toward her. She parked near the service entrance beside a catering van and sat for one last second with both hands on the wheel.
Then she got out.
Cold rain struck the back of her neck as she hurried under the awning, clutching the bag. A kitchen porter pushing stacked trays glanced at her dress, at her wet hair, and held the door without asking a question.
“Reception’s through the gallery,” he said.
“Thank you.”
She stepped into a corridor that smelled like lilies and butter and polished wood. Staff in black moved around her with focused urgency. Through an archway she caught sight of candles in hurricane glass, a quartet near the windows, a sea of dark suits and bright dresses.
At the front of the ballroom, beneath an arrangement of white orchids and winter greenery, stood her son.
Even from across the room she knew his posture. The proud set of his shoulders. The habit of touching his cuff when he was nervous. The tilt of his head as he smiled for whomever stood nearest.
He looked handsome. Older than the last holiday photo and younger than the life he had built around himself. His tuxedo fit perfectly. His hair was trimmed shorter than she liked. The sight of him still tugged at her, traitorously, with love.
Then he turned toward the doorway.
And everything in his face vanished.
He excused himself from the cluster of guests and came toward her at once, too quickly, his smile gone.
“Mom,” he said under his breath. “What are you doing here?”
Nora held his gaze. “I almost asked you the same thing.”
Color rose and drained
