“How... industrious,” she says, the pause calibrated for maximum dismissal. “Bea, didn’t your cousin have a villa near there? The one who works with that charity—what was it again?”
The pivot is so swift I almost admire its execution. Mary hasn’t acknowledged my artistic achievement, nor has she looked at me directly. Instead, she’s redirected to Bea, pulling the spotlight back to where she can control it.
“The International Children’s Fund,” Bea supplies automatically, then winces as if the information was extracted rather than offered.
“Yes, that’s it! She hosted that wonderful benefit dinner where you played the piano. You were always so talented with music.”
I sip my wine and study Mary over the rim of my glass. The attack-retreat-regroup pattern becomes clearer with each exchange. She constructing Cillian and Bea as the ideal couple. The Brown legacy.
Cillian shifts closer to me on the sofa, his thigh pressing against mine in solidarity. His warmth anchors me against Mary’s cold current.
“Star plays too,” he offers, another chess move. “Jazz piano mainly, though she’s too modest about it.”
I don’t, actually. I took three months of lessons in college before dropping them to focus on painting. But I understand the gesture.
Mary doesn’t pause this time, doesn’t acknowledge Cillian’s words at all. “Remember that Christmas you played for the governor?” Mary continues as if Cillian hadn’t spoken. “He said you reminded him of his daughter—the one who went to Juilliard.”
She moves physically closer to Bea, reaching out to straighten the already-perfect collar of her sweater.If you like her so much, Mary, why don’t you date her yourself?
Bea’s eyes flick to mine. “I don’t think the governor actually has a daughter who went to Juilliard.”
A snort slips out. Mary glares at me for a moment before laughing like her ex-daughter-in-law made a joke. “Well, he certainly meant it as a compliment, dear.”
Still, I watch the subtle shift in power. Mary tightens her grip on the conversation, which pulls Bea back into compliance. The room seems to contract around Mary’s will, the air thickening with expectation.
Arthur coughs but says nothing, turning a page in his book with deliberate focus. His non-participation is its own statement.
Mary takes her silence as surrender and presses her advantage. “Speaking of music, did I tell you we’ve kept your piano tuned, Bea? Just last month, in fact. I always hoped you might play for us again someday.”
I meet Cillian’s eyes, finding in them a mix of frustration and determination that mirrors my own. This is the game, then. Mary rewriting history and future simultaneously, crafting a narrative where I don’t exist and Bea never left.
But narratives can be disrupted. Canvas can be repainted. I’ve built my artistic career on finding beauty in the unexpected, in breaking patterns to reveal new truths.
I take another sip of the excellent Bordeaux, feeling its warmth spread through me—not as comfort but as fuel. Mary Brown maycontrol this room, this house, this carefully constructed illusion of family.
But she doesn’t control us.
The minutes slip in a series of manic topics. When one doesn’t gain Cillian’s attention, Mary quickly pivots. “Be looked so elegant in that white ski suit.” “And then that summer—the sailing excursion in Maine!” “Bea in that gold dress that made the society page.” “The Christmas Bea gave Cillian his grandfather’s restored pocket watch—”
“That wasn’t me with the pocket watch,” Bea murmurs. “That was his aunt Margaret.”
Mary doesn’t slow down. ”—and the Valentine’s Day when the roses filled the entire apartment.”
On and on, despite Cillian’s gray rocking.
At one point, Mary retrieves scrapbooks and hands them out.
“You both looked so content together,” Mary sighs, her voice taking on a dreamy quality that borders on delusion. “Everyone said so. Like you were made for each other.”
Across the room, Arthur quietly closes his book and sets it aside. His soft, calm eyes find mine briefly.
Mary continues turning pages. “And here’s the cake tasting at Bellamy’s. Bea, you were so specific about the buttercream. Remember how you insisted on the French technique?”
“Mary,” she says softly, “perhaps we should—”
“And this one,” Mary interrupts, flipping to another page with increasing speed, “was the final fitting for Bea’s dress. Just look at how it caught the light. Like something from a fairy tale.”
The tray wobbles in Bea’s grasp. She sets the silver down on the nearest table with a dull thud, the sound marking a decision solidifying within her.
