Page 23 of Guilty as Sin

The heads of diners and waitstaff alike swivel to follow her across the room, but Brioni doesn’t seem to notice them as she beelines for Orla. She greets my mother-in-law with a kiss on the cheek and an apology for running late, then introduces herself to me with a polite handshake. Her entire demeanor is wholesome and innocent, out of place in this scheming world.

Strangest of all, she seems genuinely pleased to meet me. I’m completely off-balance as Brioni settles in her seat. Who is this person? And what exactly is Orla’s angle here?

When the server delivers Brioni her own bellini, she thanks him courteously, unfazed by his sudden awkwardness. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is, I realize. She definitely doesn’t know how to use her beauty as a weapon.

Draping her napkin on her lap, Brioni compliments how gorgeous the wedding was, how incredible that Orla coordinated everything so quickly, how glowing I looked in my gown. I marvel at how effortlessly sincere she is.

Brioni is everything I’m not, and Orla clearly adores her. That must be why she’s here. Brioni is the pinnacle of respectfulness, utterly demure. She’s the example of what Orla wants me to be.

In which case, my mother-in-law is going to be sorely disappointed.

Over the plate of tea sandwiches that Orla ordered for us, Brioni asks after Sloane. Orla’s eyes crinkle with pride as she talks about her only daughter. Sloane’s doing well at college, about to begin her final year of school. I get the impression that whether she was actually too busy to fly home for the wedding is under debate. Though Brioni, in all of her graciousness, gives Sloane the benefit of the doubt.

Brioni has the faintest Irish accent, and it gives her beauty an alluring edge. Orla’s lilt is strong by comparison, and the more the two of them talk together, the more pronounced Brioni’s accent becomes. From someone else it might seem like a falsehood. But for Brioni, it’s as if Orla’s presence brings her the comfort of a happy childhood home.

Something like regret flickers in my chest, an indulgent self-pity that I shove aside. Is this another reason that Brioni’s here? So I can watch her and Orla, how close they are, and be made to feel like an outsider again?

I bite into a dainty triangle of cucumber sandwich. There’s dill in the spongy bread itself, and it’s so tasty I hope Brady had nothing to do with its development. I’d hate to give my husband any credit for something so good.

“Cora?” Brioni asks. I’ve clearly missed something, because it sounds like she’s said my name more than once.

“Sorry,” I say automatically. Brioni looks so kind and concerned that I find myself scrambling for an excuse. “I’m not used to being called Cora.”

It’s the truth, but where the hell did that honesty come from? I take another chomp of sandwich. With Orla, I’m defensive. But with Brioni, I’m disarmed. I swallow the lump of cucumber, and it’s painful in my throat. Is kindness a weapon?

“Ah, yes,” Orla says. “You’ve been going by Samantha, haven’t you?” There’s judgment in her words, and I’m back on my guard again.

“Yes,” I say firmly, refusing to be embarrassed. To Brioni, I explain, “I changed my name to Samantha when I moved here.”

Brioni goes pale, as if horrified that I’ve gone through something as traumatizing as a name change. And damn that kind concern of hers, because I want to reassure her that it wasn’t so bad.

“It was fun, actually,” I say. “I got to pick out all three names. First, middle, and last. I’d never had a middle name before.”

Both of my siblings have middle names. Charlotte Maureen Muloney and Connor Ronan Muloney. My lack of middle name was an oversight, which was fitting for how my parents overlooked me as the middle child, before my rebelliousness.

I’m just Cora Muloney.

Or I was.

“What’s your middle name, Brioni?” I ask, redirecting the topic.

“Rose.” She lowers her eyes to the table, her voice going soft. “After me mam.”

Orla reaches out to pat Brioni’s hand. Instead of pulling away, or even just accepting the touch, Brioni turns her hand palm-up, and they grasp hold of each other. I can tell by the tendons in their wrists that Orla’s squeezing pretty hard. And Brioni’s squeezing right back, as if Orla is transferring some of her own strength into the younger woman.

I sit back in my chair, an outsider so moved by this simple gesture my mind goes blank. I try to recall memories of my mom doing anything like that, and I can’t.

When I picture someone nurturing holding my hand, it’s Charlotte.

My sister meant well, calling me yesterday, and I now regret hanging up on her. We’re wholly different people, but she’s still my sister. I can’t blame her for accepting her role in this life.

If anything, I’m jealous that she fits her role so well, even if it’s a role I despise.

I loathed the mafia’s treatment of women from the moment I saw my father backhand my mother. Connor, in his high chair, had flung mashed potatoes at our father, which he interpreted as his wife turning his own children against him. He hit her so hard she fell to the floor, then he spat on her in disgust.

I was six.

Seeing our father lash out like that, seeing him get his way with a swing of his arm, I knew in my gut it was unfair.