One daughter loved her mother.
The other asked questions.
I put down the pen.
“I’ll have an independent lawyer look at it.”
My mother’s smile disappeared.
“There are two hundred people downstairs.”
“Then this can wait.”
“It cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because the arrangement must be completed before the ceremony.”
I heard the air-conditioning hum. Outside, someone laughed in the courtyard.
My mother lowered her voice.
“Your father’s estate has obligations you know nothing about. I have spent eighteen months protecting you from them.”
“Then tell me what they are.”
“This is not the time.”
“You brought me the contract.”
She stared at me.
For a moment, I thought she might slap me. She never had, but her anger sometimes reached a stillness that made my body prepare anyway.
Instead, she adjusted one crystal at my shoulder.
“The designer’s contribution is conditional on the paperwork. So is my contribution to this wedding.”
There it was again: a door disguised as a gift, and her hand around the key.
“If you embarrass me today,” she said, “you will do it in front of everyone.”
She left the folder.
For several seconds, I stood perfectly still.
Then I reached behind my neck for the first hook.
I couldn’t find it.
My fingers began to tremble.
That was when Rosa returned.
She took one look at my face and closed the door.
“Too heavy?” she asked.
I nodded.
She came behind me.
One hook.
Then another.
As she worked, she hummed a little tune under her breath, five soft notes rising and falling.
I had heard her hum it before.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, it always made me feel as though I had almost remembered something.
“Did you sew it so this could come off?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine in the mirror.
“I made your dress so you could wear it by itself.”
Lila came in while Rosa was gathering her sewing kit.
She looked beautiful in emerald, her dark hair swept into a glossy low bun. Our mother had chosen her earrings because they matched the vineyard branding.
“Mom says you’re having a crisis.”
“No. I’m having a question.”
I gave her the folder.
She read the title and sighed.
“Claire, can’t you just—”
“Page five.”
Something in my voice stopped her.
She turned the pages.
I watched recognition fail to arrive.
Then confusion.
Then fear.
“This company,” she said. “She told me it was for her design business.”
“When?”
“Last fall. She said her accountant recommended putting it in my name.”
“Did you sign anything?”
Lila nodded.
Her eyes filled.
“Am I taking your vineyard?”
“I don’t know.”
It was the first honest sentence we had shared in months.
She sat down abruptly.
Our mother had always made our disagreements seem like proof that we were fundamentally different. I was difficult. Lila was good. I was cold. Lila was loving.
Now my sister looked twenty-five and terrified.
“She said Dad wanted it this way.”
I sat beside her.
“She says that to me, too.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
