Chapter 4: The Garden at Seven
Richard was already there when I arrived, standing near the stone bench at the far end of the garden path, a cup of coffee in both hands.
He looked like he hadn't slept either.
He handed me one of the cups without a word.
"Sit down," he said.
I sat.
He looked out at the hedgerow for a moment.
Then he turned to face me.
"What I'm going to tell you, I should have told Julian years ago.
I didn't.
That's on me." He paused.
"Eleanor's comment last night — about knowing something about your family — she wasn't making it up."
My hands tightened around the cup.
"What does she know?"
"Your mother's dress," Richard said.
"The designer.
Do you know the name?"
"Of course.
Marchetti.
My mother had it made in 1974.
She told me the story a hundred times."
Richard nodded slowly.
"And did she ever tell you where she had it made?"
"Florence.
She was studying abroad."
"Did she tell you who she was studying with?"
I stared at him.
"What does that have to do with—"
"Your mother and I were in the same program," Richard said.
"Florence, 1974.
We were friends.
Good friends." He looked at his coffee.
"Eleanor found out years ago.
She's known since before Julian and you ever met."
The garden went very quiet.
"You knew my mother," I said.
"Yes."
"Before I ever came into this family."
"Yes."
"And Eleanor knew that.
And she still—" I stopped.
"She destroyed the dress knowing it came from that time.
From that part of my mother's life."
"I believe so."
I set the cup down on the bench because my hands were no longer steady.
"Why didn't you say something?
When Julian first brought me home.
When you met me.
You had to have recognized my last name."
"I recognized more than your name," Richard said quietly.
"You have her eyes."
Something cracked open in the center of my chest.
I pressed my hand flat against my sternum and breathed.
"There's more," he said.
"Tell me."
"Eleanor didn't find the scissors in a drawer last night." He looked at me directly.
"She brought them with her to the estate.
I found the packaging in the waste bin in her room this morning.
She planned this before she arrived."
Premeditated.
The word formed in my mind before I could stop it.
"She wanted to destroy it specifically," I said.
"Not just ruin the wedding.
She wanted to destroy that dress."
"Yes."
"Because of what it represented.
Because of you and my mother."
Richard didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
I stood up.
My legs felt strange, like the ground had shifted two inches to the left.
"Does Julian know?
About you and my mother being friends?"
"No.
I never told him."
"Why not?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because Eleanor made it very clear, a long time ago, that if I ever spoke of your mother, she would make things very difficult for Julian.
For his career.
His inheritance." He looked down.
"I was a coward.
I chose the easier path."
I looked at this man — Julian's father, my almost-father-in-law, a man who had known my mother when she was young and alive and standing in Florence in a silk dress — and I felt something I hadn't expected.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Grief.
Sharp and sudden, like finding a photograph you didn't know existed.
"I need to think," I said.
"Of course."
I turned to go.
Then I stopped.
"The dress," I said.
"She knew exactly what she was cutting."
"Yes," Richard said.
"She did."
I walked back toward the house.
Behind me, I heard him say something else — soft, almost to himself.
I almost didn't catch it.
But I did.
*"Your mother would have been so proud of you today."*
I didn't turn around.
May you like
I couldn't.
I just kept walking, and let the words follow me all the way to the door.
