On Friday evening Corinne stood in her old bedroom at the house in Meriweather, staring into a full-length, antique mirror on spindly legs. It was only a half hour before her rehearsal dinner would begin. Her dress, a satin floral print with an open back, fit perfectly. A stylist had arranged her hair in loose curls, and her makeup was flawless, evening out the blotchiness that had formed on her cheeks from days of crying. Her eyes looked bigger and were no longer red; her waist seemed smaller, probably from being too stressed to eat.
“Honey, you look wonderful,” her mother said softly, pausing a moment to push a stray hair out of Corinne’s face. Then she frowned. “Why aren’t you smiling?”
Corinne looked away, hating that her feelings were so transparent. She had been over her conversation with Sadie Grier a hundred times. The idea that Corinne could have had something to do with Poppy’s murder—that she had put her in danger and that Will had snapped—had rattled her, even if it wasn’t true. And then there had been the wound of seeing Michaela, the daughter she had never even held. On top of all that, this new information about her father and Danielle felt like too much to handle. The skinny red-haired girl with the snarky mouth and the steel-trap mind. Aster’s best friend. It turned Corinne’s stomach just thinking about it. She could hardly look her father in the eye this afternoon when he carried in a crate of champagne.
She felt guilty too for being cold to Aster for so many years—now Aster’s blatant rebellion against her family made sense. It felt as if the world had changed overnight, but Corinne hadn’t. If anything, it made her desperate for something solid. No more surprises, no more messes. She was getting married. She had to. It was as though she were in line to leave a parking garage; if she backed up now, her tires would go over the sharp spikes, causing irrevocable damage. After all, people had already gathered downstairs—she could hear them burbling happily in the parlor and on the lawn. The day had dawned perfect, warm and sunny, and if she were to look outside, she’d see the big tent set up for the reception and the seats arranged for the ceremony. Dixon was somewhere downstairs, mingling with the guests, and judging by the smell of lobster and cream and sautéed vegetables, Will was probably here too.
Will. Pain streaked through Corinne. After she’d sent that text, he hadn’t replied. Though maybe that was for the best.
“I’m just nervous,” Corinne answered finally, blinking hard to keep from crying.
“Why?” Penelope waved her hand dismissively. “All the details are in place.”
“I know,” Corinne said, her chin quivering.
“Are you sure it’s not something else?”
Poppy’s words from so long ago floated back to her: You’re being so hard on yourself, Corinne. And Rowan’s: Everyone will forgive you if you don’t go through with it. Had she underestimated her mother? Perhaps she’d sympathize. Perhaps she wasn’t as rigid and regimented as Corinne thought.
Then Penelope laid her head on Corinne’s shoulder. “It’s Poppy, isn’t it? We all miss her. But I’m so proud of you, honey. You’ve been so strong through this. Such a shining example.” She leaned over and kissed Corinne’s forehead.
Corinne winced at the feeling of her mother’s papery lips on her skin. Not long ago, those words had been all she strove for. But now they seemed sort of ridiculous. A shining example? Really?
“Mom, could you give me a minute?” she said, offering her mother what she hoped was a jittery-bride smile.
“Of course, darling.” Penelope’s fingers trailed along Corinne’s arm as she glided out of the room.
Corinne listened as she walked down the stairs, then sat down on the bed. This was where she’d slept when she was a girl, and it was still filled with her favorite things: the Victorian dollhouse in the corner, the porcelain figurines of ballet dancers and princesses on the shelves, the plastic organizers full of her mother’s old costume jewelry, which she festooned her dolls with before she made them all get married.
A memory swirled into her mind, pure and sharp: that summer she’d been with Will, she’d lain on this very bed, staring at the ceiling, reliving their moments together. Feeling so alive, her heart thumping fast, her breathing quick. She remembered calling him once, whispering, “I wish you could come over.”
“I’ll come if you let me,” Will had answered. “I’ll climb in your window.”
“But it’s on the third floor,” Corinne had protested.
“So?” Will had laughed. “I’ll climb a tree. I’ll scale the side of the house. I’ll get to you somehow.”
A fresh round of tears prickled at Corinne’s eyes. Will had wanted her, really wanted her. But now everything was ruined.