By the end of the evening, there was only one big thing left to decide on: the guests. Ramona had an in with a calligrapher and a stationery company, but they had to know the head count tonight for the invitations to go out in time.
“Well, there are the Milanos, the Reeveses, and the Parsons,” Hanna said, naming her relatives and a few old family friends. She eyed her mother. “But let’s not include the Rumsons.” They had a vile daughter named Brooke who’d tried to steal Hanna’s old boyfriend, Lucas Beattie, away. “Most everyone from school is a yes, though definitely not Colleen Bebris.” She snuck a peek at Mike. He’d dated her for a brief time earlier that year. “We can invite Naomi and Riley, but they should have a really crappy table assignment. And a definite no to that Klaudia Huusko girl.” Klaudia had tried to steal Noel from Aria. Aria might not be coming, but Hanna still had her standards.
“Got it,” Ramona said, writing everything down.
Hanna smiled nastily. If she had her way, this was going to be the party of the century, better than any Sweet Sixteen or Foxy Ball or stupid benefit at the Rosewood Country Club combined. It would be her last power play to snub those who’d pissed her off.
“Noel, Mason, all the guys on the lacrosse team,” Mike listed off. “My mom, her boss at the gallery. And my dad and Meredith and Lola.”
“What about your father, Hanna?”
Hanna looked up, astonished. It had been her mother who’d said it.
Ms. Marin jiggled her knee on the slipper chair. There was a conflicted but also principled look on her face. “I mean, he is your father. He would not want to miss it.”
Hanna snorted. “Kate can come,” she said, referring to her stepsister. Kate had found out about the engagement and sent Hanna an email, in fact, asking if she could be of any help. “But not him. We’ve been through too much.”
She felt everyone’s eyes on her, especially Ramona’s. But it wasn’t like Hanna was going to explain her reasoning. It was far too embarrassing to admit that your own father chose his new wife, his new stepdaughter, and even his political campaign over you. Again and again, Mr. Marin had given Hanna the tiniest bit of affection only to yank it away when she did something wrong. She was tired of giving him second, third, and fourth chances just because they used to be two peas in a pod. He’d changed.
And suddenly, she felt like she had to make them understand she was serious. She sprang from her chair and mumbled that she’d be right back. Once back in her room, she gazed at herself in the mirror. She’d taken off the wedding dress, but there was still a bride-esque glow about her that couldn’t be undone. Her father probably would want to see her. But enough was enough. He’d hurt her for the last time.
She reached for her phone and scrolled for the number at his campaign office. An assistant answered, and when Hanna told him her name, she said, “I’ll put you through” in a brisk voice. Hanna blinked hard. She’d half-expected the assistant to hang up on her.
“Hanna,” her father’s voice boomed through the other end mere seconds later. “It’s so good to hear from you. How are you holding up?”
Hanna was both shocked and irritated by the warmth in his voice. “How do you think?” she heard herself snap. “I’m on trial. Haven’t you heard?”
“Of course I know,” Mr. Marin said softly, maybe regretfully.
Hanna rolled her eyes. She wasn’t going to give in to that tone of voice. “Anyway, I just called to let you know I’m getting married to Mike Montgomery.”
“You’re . . . what?”
She bristled. Was that judgment she sensed? “We’re very happy. The wedding is next Saturday at Chanticleer.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
She ignored his question. “I just called to tell you that you aren’t invited,” she said loudly, saying the words quickly before she lost her nerve. “Mom and I have got it covered. Have a nice life.”
She pressed END fast, then cupped the phone between her hands. All at once, she felt even better. The gentle, Emily-like warmth in the room returned. For the next few days, Hanna would surround herself with exactly who she wanted—and no one else.
14
LITTLE DUTCH GIRL
Aria sat up as daybreak streamed through the long, slanting windows of her room. She pushed back the curtains and peered out. It was Wednesday morning, and bicyclists traversed the picturesque canals. The air smelled like pannenkoeken, the famous Dutch pancakes. A man was standing on the next street corner playing the loveliest little melody on his violin. And then, from the next room over, Aria heard one of the raucous boys let out the loudest burp ever. “I am so hungover,” someone bellowed.
“Yeah, well, I think I’m still stoned.”