Chapter 4: The Other Call She Made
Daniel didn't look at me right away.
He sat with his elbows on his knees, turning his phone over in his hands the way he does when he's working out how to say something he's already decided to say.
"After that dinner," he started, "the night you said the salmon was good — she called me the next morning.
Before you were up."
"What did she say?"
"She said she'd been thinking about it.
That she wasn't trying to be cruel, she just wanted me to understand the 'full picture.' Her words." He set the phone down.
"She said she'd spoken to someone.
A wedding coordinator she knew.
Asked her opinion."
I waited.
"The coordinator apparently agreed with her.
Or that's what she told me.
That a professional had confirmed that having Nathan in the formal aisle photos could create — she said 'visual inconsistency.' That was the phrase."
"Visual inconsistency."
"Yes."
I stood up.
Walked to the window.
The street outside was quiet and ordinary and had no idea what was happening in our bedroom.
"She was building a case," I said.
"Yes."
"She went and found someone to agree with her so she could come back to you with backup."
"Yes." Daniel's voice was steady but his hands weren't.
"I told her it wasn't happening.
That Nathan was walking you, full stop, and I didn't want to discuss it again.
She said she understood." He paused.
"Then she called Carol."
I turned around.
"How long have you known about the Carol call?"
"Since yesterday.
Carol texted me last night after she got home.
She wanted me to know before today, in case —" He stopped.
"She wanted me to be prepared."
"Carol protected us."
"Carol has always been decent." He looked up at me.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.
About the morning call.
I thought I'd handled it.
I thought she'd let it go."
"She didn't let it go."
"No."
I came back and sat beside him.
Not because I was finished being angry, but because the anger wasn't at him and I needed him to know that.
"Is there anything else?" I asked.
"Anything she did that you haven't told me?"
He was quiet for a moment too long.
"Daniel."
"She asked my father to talk to you directly.
He refused.
That's why he was so quiet at dinner that night — he'd already told her no and they'd argued about it.
He told me this morning, in the car on the way home."
Robert.
Quiet Robert, who'd said *don't call it simple* and meant it.
Who had refused before I even knew there was something to refuse.
"Your father is a good man," I said.
"He is." Daniel nodded slowly.
"He told me he was ashamed of her.
His exact words.
He said, 'I want you to know I'm ashamed of what she tried to do.'"
I didn't say anything for a moment.
Then: "She's going to act like today never happened.
Tomorrow or the next day, she'll call and be perfectly normal and expect everything to reset."
"Probably."
"I'm not going to let it reset."
Daniel looked at me.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm going to talk to her.
Directly.
Not at a dinner table, not in front of people.
Just her and me." I met his eyes.
"I need her to hear it without an audience to perform for."
"Are you sure that's —"
"I practiced," I said.
He looked at me for a second.
Then something moved across his face — grief and love and a kind of exhausted pride all at once.
"Okay," he said softly.
"Okay."
But two days later, before I could arrange anything, Patricia called me first.
Her voice on the phone was smooth and warm, like the dinner had been a minor misunderstanding between people who simply cared too much.
"I thought we could have lunch," she said.
"Just the two of us.
Clear the air."
I said yes.
May you like
I said yes because I wanted to look her in the eye when I told her what I needed to tell her.
And because I wanted to see, without any buffer, exactly who she was when she thought she was winning.
