Chapter 3

At ten o'clock Friday morning, I pulled onto the gravel driveway of Old Oak Manor.

The manor was a sprawling stone estate surrounded by bare, winter-blackened oaks. The ground was hard with frost. When I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the grand ballroom, the scent of fresh cedar boughs, white gardenias, and floor wax washed over me.

Laughter echoed from the far side of the room.

Grant, Tessa, Brooke, Marcus, and Colin were clustered around the venue coordinator, an elegant woman in a tailored gray suit holding an acrylic clipboard. Tessa was holding a color-coded printout, gesturing toward the double doors that led to the ceremony lawn.

Brooke spotted me first. Her face brightened with that easy, familiar warmth.

"Valerie! You’re here! Tessa said you were going to sleep in until noon after yesterday."

"It’s my wedding rehearsal, Brooke," I said.

The venue coordinator checked her notes, glancing between me and the printout in Tessa’s hand.

"Ah, Ms. Marcusnett. Perfect timing. We were just finalizing the processional order. Since your father passed, we have an open slot for who will escort you down the aisle. Tessa mentioned that Mr. Parker’s father or perhaps Marcus might—"

"No," I said.

The word fell flat and solid onto the parquet floor.

Tessa lowered her pen, her expression instantly soft, apologetic. "Valerie, we were just brainstorming so you wouldn't feel alone up there. It’s a sixty-foot walk. We thought having family beside you—"

"I have two feet, Tessa," I said, looking directly at her. "I can walk sixty feet."

The coordinator cleared her throat and made a swift checkmark with her pen. "Solo entrance. Understood."

Across the ballroom, near the floor-to-ceiling bay windows overlooking the frozen fountain, the reception tables had been arranged for the final layout check.

In the center stood a long, rectangular mahogany table draped in heavy ivory damask. The placard card on the easel beside it read: Head Table — The Old Family.

There were six place cards set on the damask.

Grant’s card was dead center, directly beneath the crystal chandelier.

To his immediate right was Tessa.

Flanking them were Marcus, Colin, and Brooke.

My name card—Valerie Marcusnett—sat at the far northern edge of the table, angled toward the service swing-doors where the catering staff would carry the trays.

Tessa saw me stop. She stepped over quickly, her heels clicking softly against the wood.

"We thought that spot would give you the most breathing room," she explained, her voice gentle, completely devoid of hostility. "You mentioned your migraine triggers, and the center chandelier has those high-intensity halogens. Plus, it’s right next to the side hallway if your mother’s sisters need anything from the bridal suite. But if you hate it, we can shift someone else down."

I reached out and picked up the small ivory card with my name written in gold calligraphy.

"Who decided I should sit at the edge?"

No one answered immediately.

Colin looked down at his watch. Marcus shoved his hands into his coat pockets and turned to examine an oil painting on the wall. Brooke bit her lower lip.

"Oh, this?" The coordinator flipped through her clipboard. "I remember it clearly. We emailed the seating chart two weeks ago, and you replied yourself."

"...What?"

"You wrote, 'Whatever you think works. I don't mind.' I even replied that the head table had limited space, and you said it was fine."

I stood there.

I remembered the email. Wednesday night, buried between work messages, I had glanced at it and typed six words without thinking.

Whatever you think works. I don't mind.

Tessa looked at me with an understanding I thought might make me feel better. It did not.

"I said it myself," I said.

"You were busy," she said.

"When am I not busy?"

Grant walked over, his face tight with that familiar, weary patience. He reached out to take the card from my fingers.

"Valerie, Tessa was trying to keep you away from the chandelier. You told us the lights trigger your migraines. She thought she was helping."

"It isn't the table, Grant," I said, slipping the card into the pocket of my coat.

He frowned. "Then what is it?"

"It’s the habit."

I turned and walked out of the ballroom.

My boots clicked against the black-and-white marble of the gallery hallway. Behind me, the rapid, rhythmic tap of Tessa’s leather boots followed.

"Valerie! Wait. Please."

She caught up with me outside the women’s parlor, breathless, her cheeks flushed.

"Valerie, I’m sorry," she said, catching my arm before letting it drop. "I do this for corporate galas. When I see an empty box on an event sheet, I fill it. It’s an occupational hazard. I swear to you, none of this was meant to push you out. You know we’ve always seen you as one of us."

I looked at her face—the smooth brow, the honest, clear eyes. She truly believed what she was saying. In her mind, she was a hero who had given up her holiday week to execute a flawless event for her oldest friend.

"Wanting me here," I said quietly, "and leaving a place for me here are not the same thing."

Tessa’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

"Where are you going?" she asked finally. "The caterer is bringing the tasting plates in twenty minutes."

"I need a minute," I said.

I walked out to my car, started the engine, and drove straight into town.

I parked in a pharmacy lot two blocks away and sat with both hands on the steering wheel.

For the first time, I opened the train website and looked at the Sunday evening departures. I did not buy a ticket.

Then I called Harriet.

“If I ever needed somewhere to stay for a few days,” I said, “could I come to you?”

She did not ask why. “Of course,” she said. “You never have to ask twice.”

My phone chimed with a voicemail from Grant.

Valerie, come back to the manor. We fixed the place cards. You’re sitting directly to my right, right in the center. Tessa agrees this is much better. Please don't let a seating chart turn into a scene. We have more than thirty people arriving in forty-eight hours. Come home.

I deleted the voicemail.

Then I drove home.