Chapter 7: What Brothers Don't Say
Julian didn't answer immediately.
He got up and walked to the window that looked out over the courtyard.
The flagstones were still damp where the latte had been poured.
The garden beyond was exactly as Meredith had left it — trowel resting against the stone border, a pair of gardening gloves folded on the low wall.
"Did I love her?" he said.
"Or did I love the idea of her?"
"I don't know," Meredith said.
"I think you might be the only person who can answer that."
"I kept telling myself the doubts were my problem.
That I was too guarded.
That she was exactly what she appeared to be and I was the one making it complicated." He turned from the window.
"Every time something felt wrong, I found a reason it was my fault."
"She was very good at that," Meredith said.
"Making the doubt turn inward."
"You watched it happen."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing."
"I said something once," Meredith said.
"About eight months before Father died.
I told you I thought she was moving too fast.
That I wanted you to slow down." She paused.
"You told me I had never trusted anyone you brought home and I was doing it again."
Julian closed his eyes briefly.
"I remember."
"I decided then that I couldn't reach you through words.
So I waited.
And I watched.
And when Father showed me the recording, I understood what I had to do." She looked at her hands — the calloused palms, the short nails, the small scar along her left thumb from a pruning accident three winters ago.
"I'm sorry I didn't find a better way."
"Don't apologize," Julian said.
He crossed the room and sat back down.
"I'm the one who brought her here."
"You trusted someone.
That's not a fault."
"I trusted the wrong person."
"Yes," Meredith said.
"But you trusted me when it mattered.
Today, on the terrace — you didn't hesitate."
Julian looked at her.
"You're my sister."
"I know." A pause.
"I just wanted to hear you say it."
He almost smiled.
It didn't quite make it to his face, but it was close.
"The engagement party," he said.
"The deposits.
The venue."
"Forsythe's office will handle the cancellations.
Most vendors have a force majeure clause for fraud-related terminations.
The ones that don't — we'll cover."
"And the guests?"
"A short message.
No details.
People will understand more than you think."
Julian nodded slowly.
He looked around the sitting room — the bookshelves, the fireplace, the chair where his father had sat when he recorded the video.
The chair where Genevieve had just signed her name.
"I want to watch it again," he said.
"The recording."
Meredith reached into her apron pocket.
She set the USB drive on the table between them.
"I thought you might," she said.
He picked it up.
Turned it over in his hand.
"He knew," Julian said.
"He knew it was coming and he didn't panic.
He just — made a plan."
"That was Father."
"I want to be more like that."
Meredith looked at him for a moment.
Then she stood, walked to the small cabinet beside the fireplace, and returned with two glasses and a bottle of Scotch — the old one, the one their father had kept for occasions.
She poured.
Set one glass in front of Julian.
"You already are," she said.
"You just don't know it yet."
Julian picked up the glass.
He didn't drink immediately.
He just held it.
Outside, through the window, the afternoon light was beginning to shift.
The courtyard was empty.
The fountain ran on.
Then Julian's phone buzzed again.
This time he picked it up.
His expression changed.
"It's Forsythe," he said.
"They've already moved on Daniel." He read further.
"There's a second name.
Someone else in the consulting agreement." He looked up.
"Someone we didn't know about."
May you like
Meredith set down her glass.
"Who?" she said.
