Daniel squeezed mine.
“And you kept asking me what I wanted.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Which was incredibly annoying at first.”
More laughter.
“But eventually I realized something.”
I looked straight at him.
“Being loved is not the same as being managed.”
My voice steadied.
“So I promise never to confuse the two.”
We exchanged rings.
We kissed beneath the oak tree.
And when everyone stood cheering, I looked toward the front row.
My mother was crying.
But she was clapping.
At the reception, Lila found me alone near the old fountain.
She had changed out of her bridesmaid heels and was carrying two glasses of champagne.
“Peace offering.”
I accepted one.
“For what?”
She looked embarrassed.
“For saying you looked cheap.”
“You’ve said worse.”
“I know.”
“So have I.”
That surprised her.
I smiled.
“Remember when I told Aunt Rachel your spray tan made you look like a rotisserie chicken?”
Lila burst out laughing.
“I was sixteen.”
“You were orange.”
She laughed harder.
Then tears suddenly filled her eyes.
She looked down.
“I really thought she loved you more.”
I went still.
“Mom?”
Lila nodded.
“Because she was always obsessed with you.
Your clothes.
Your choices.
Your boyfriends.
Your career.”
I stared.
“I thought she loved you more because you never disappointed her.”
Lila wiped one cheek.
“Claire, I disappointed her every day.”
“How?”
“By not being you.”
The words stunned me.
All those years.
Two girls in neighboring bedrooms.
Both convinced the other had won.
Both measured against a version of each other that did not exist.
“What did Dad write?”
I asked.
Lila looked at the unopened envelope in her hand.
“I haven’t read it.”
“Want me to stay?”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
We sat on the fountain’s edge.
She broke the seal.
Her eyes moved across the page.
Then she laughed.
“What?”
She handed it to me.
The first line read:
Lila, if your sister is sitting beside you when you open this, then perhaps I got one thing right.
My vision blurred again.
We read the rest together.
He apologized.
Not for dying.
For failing to stop the competition between us.
He wrote that our mother believed comparison produced excellence.
He believed it produced loneliness.
Then the final paragraph made both of us cry.
You were never meant to defeat each other.
You were meant to have each other when your mother and I were gone.
Please don’t waste too many years figuring that out.
Lila laid her head on my shoulder.
“We wasted a lot.”
“Not all of them.”
“No.”
The vineyard lights reflected on the fountain water.
“We still have some.”
I took her hand.
“A lot.”
Julian found us just before dinner.
“There are documents both of you will need to review next week.”
Lila groaned.
“Please tell me there aren’t more secret companies.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Comforting.”
Then Julian handed me something small.
An old brass key.
I turned it over.
“What does this open?”
“Your father’s office.”
I looked toward the restored stone house.
“The one here?”
Julian nodded.
“It has remained locked since the final renovation.”
My heart sped up.
“Why?”
“His instructions.”
Of course.
Daniel joined us.
“Want to see it?”
I looked toward the reception.
Music.
Laughter.
Candles.
Our guests could survive ten minutes without us.
So the four of us crossed the courtyard.
The office was at the back of the main house.
The brass key turned stiffly.
The door opened.
I smelled cedar.
Leather.
Dust.
The room looked finished but untouched.
A large desk faced the vineyard.
Books filled one wall.
On another hung architectural drawings.
