Chapter 7: What Patricia Had Planned
We found her near the dessert table, talking to Kevin's father and two of his cousins.
She was laughing at something.
Her champagne glass was nearly full, which meant she was being careful tonight.
Controlled.
Kevin walked up to her directly.
"Mom.
Can I speak to you?"
Patricia smiled at the cousins.
"Excuse me a moment."
They stepped away from the table, the three of us, to a quieter spot near the garden wall.
The band was playing something soft.
Nobody nearby was paying attention.
Kevin held out Roberta's phone.
Patricia looked at the screen.
Her expression didn't collapse.
It shifted — a small recalibration, like a chess player who has just seen a move they didn't anticipate.
"Where did you get that?" she said.
"Did you contact Diane?"
"Kevin —"
"Answer me."
Patricia set her champagne glass on the wall beside her.
"I reached out to her, yes.
As a friend.
Diane and I always had a good relationship."
"You reached out to her two days before my wedding."
"I was concerned.
I wanted a second opinion from someone who had been in your life before —" she glanced at me — "all of this."
"Is she here tonight?"
Patricia was quiet for just a beat too long.
"Mom."
"I invited her.
I don't know if she came."
Kevin turned and looked at the garden.
I did too.
Two hundred faces.
The light was warm and uneven and it was impossible to know.
"You need to call her," Kevin said.
"Right now.
You need to tell her to leave if she's here, and you need to tell her why."
"I'm not going to —"
"You are going to do that, or I am going to walk back to that microphone, ask for everyone's attention, and play the recording I made in your kitchen.
In front of Dad.
In front of Roberta.
In front of every person at this reception."
Patricia's jaw tightened.
"You wouldn't."
"Three hours ago you didn't think I'd play it in the bridal suite either."
A long silence.
The band shifted into something with a stronger beat.
Laughter from the dance floor.
Patricia picked up her champagne glass.
Put it back down without drinking.
"Fine," she said.
"I'll call her."
"Now.
In front of me."
She took out her phone.
Found the number.
Held it to her ear.
We waited.
"Diane," she said.
Her voice was smooth, practiced.
"I need you to head home tonight.
Something's come up." A pause.
"No, everything is fine.
I'll explain later.
Thank you."
She ended the call.
Looked at Kevin.
"Done."
"If she shows up anyway —"
"She won't.
Diane has always been sensible." The word landed like a small blade, aimed at me without looking at me.
Kevin caught it.
"We're going to talk about all of this.
Not tonight.
But soon, and fully, and you're going to listen."
"Of course," Patricia said.
Pleasantly.
Agreeably.
In the tone of a woman who has learned to wait.
She picked up her champagne, excused herself, and walked back toward the table.
Kevin watched her go.
"She's not done," I said quietly.
"No," he said.
"She's not."
He took my hand.
"But tonight is ours.
Whatever comes next, it doesn't start tonight."
I looked at him.
Then at the garden.
The lights.
The music.
The people who had come to celebrate something they believed in.
"Okay," I said.
We went back to the dance floor.
But I kept watching the entrance.
Just in case.
At ten-fifteen, a woman I didn't recognize appeared at the garden gate.
Dark coat.
Alone.
She stood there for a moment, looking in.
May you like
Then she saw Kevin.
And Kevin saw her.
