She squints at me. “I think you’re confusing movies right now.” But she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the universal dance of someone who can’t wait much longer to relieve their bladder.
“Right, I’m going. Don’t leave until Celeste gets a chance to talk to you today, yeah? Promise?”
Raven promises by holding up her pinky. I awkwardly twist it in mine. I can’t remember the last time I pinky-promised anyone anything. “See you on the other side,” she says.
With that, I exit the men’s room, heading for the main hall, my borrowed shoes clicking against marble, my borrowed watch ticking against my wrist, and a conversation in my chest that I have absolutely no idea how to start.
chapter 5
Celeste
The sound of Eleanor’s voice carries down the hallway before I even reach the kitchen, her crisp consonants slicing through the air like knives through butter. I pause at the doorway, watching her gesture at the counter with the controlled movements of a surgeon.
This is an odd take on grief. She’s not sitting quietly in a chair somewhere, staring at a photograph of her daughter, letting the loss wash over her in waves the way normal people do. No. Eleanor Montgomery-Trace is standing in the middle of a catering kitchen the size of my apartment, pointing at a tray of hors d’oeuvres like it owes her money.
“The crostini are uneven,” she says. “They look homemade.”
“They are homemade, Mrs. Trace. That was the directive,” the woman next to her explains.
“The directive was rustic-elegant. These are just rustic. There’s a difference.”
I retreat from the kitchen doorway and flatten myself against the hallway wall, safely out of sight but close enough to hear. It smells like roasted garlic and fresh flowers—an unsettlingcombination that rockets me backward to dinner parties Whit and I used to dread. Back when Whit and I were still in college, my parents were aloof. Eleanor was tyrannical, performing the role of doting mother for the crowd, but bullying Whitney in private. Her clothes, her hair, her grades, her body—all weaponized. How many events did we leave with Whitney in silent tears, me, her dutiful plus-one, trailing behind in silence knowing no words of encouragement could save her from her mother’s chronic criticism and condescension?
Those dinners always smelled just like this. Garlic. Flowers. And an undercurrent of tension so thick you could spread it on the crostini. Whitney used to prep me in the car beforehand like a cornerman before a boxing match.
“Avoid mentioning anything remotely political. That’d be entering a gun fight with a knife. Never say a word about the new curtains unless you want to hear the entire saga of their selection. And please, for the love of God, if she starts with any comments about my size, stomp on my foot before I lunge at her.”
God, I miss her.
I peek through the archway to catch a cook passing Eleanor with a tray. She stops him with a single raised finger, the way a traffic cop stops a semi. She lifts a napkin, inspects something beneath it, replaces the napkin, and waves him on without comment. The cook exhales like he’s been released from a hostage situation.
The woman standing next to Eleanor must be the event coordinator. Or at least I’m assuming she is because she’s wearing a headset, holding a clipboard, and is radiating the specific brand of patience reserved for people who manage other people’s catastrophes for a living. She places a hand on Eleanor’s arm.
“Mrs. Trace. Everything is under control. I’ve done over two hundred events in this space, and I promise you, the crostini are beautiful. Why don’t you take a few minutes? Get some air. Let me handle this part so you can focus on getting through the day.”
Eleanor doesn’t respond right away. Her face twists up in that familiar expression that makes my skin restrict around my bones—a practiced pause she deploys when someone tells her something she disagrees with but she doesn’t want to argue about it publicly. But make no mistake, she’ll corner you later and rip you to shreds in private. I know, because this is the same look she gave me ten years ago when I told her Whitney’s engagement was off and Whit no longer wanted to speak to her mother.
“Fine,” Eleanor says. The single syllable carries enough frost to chill the hot trays.
After a single sharp inhale, I force myself to step around the corner and trespass into the kitchen.
It’s all stainless steel and organized chaos—caterers in black aprons moving between stations, steam rising from covered pans, trays of champagne flutes lined up like soldiers. Eleanor stands at the center of it, impeccable in head-to-toe black Chanel. Her auburn hair is pulled back so severely it seems to be holding her face in place, and her pearls sit against her collarbone with the quiet authority of heirlooms that have attended more funerals than I have. She looks exactly the way she’s always looked: expensive, controlled, and slightly terrifying.
Her eyes land on me and something flickers behind them—surprise, calculation, then nothing. She irons her expression flat in under a second.
“Celeste.”
“Hello, Eleanor.”
We regard each other across ten feet of kitchen tile like two women who’ve both been in love with the same person and lost. Which, we have. We just lost her differently.
“I’m surprised to see you here. How’d you find out about the event?”
I want to screw up my face and call out the obvious, which is that obviously she invited me. Did she really think I’m so cruel I wouldn’t attend Whitney’s funeral? But I don’t feel like throwing the first punch on today of all days. “I just got the information on Thursday. I tried to call you but the number wasn’t in service.”
“Or perhaps you’re blocked,” Eleanor offers, her lips in a tight line.
“Fair.” I look around the bustling room. “Could we have a word?”
