“Rose.” Her voice cooled by one degree. “A proper family handles these things with grace.”
“You’ve never confused grace with permission before.”
The silence on the line tightened.
Then she dropped the sweetness.
“We’ve decided Tiffany needs your mother’s trust more than you do. A proper Nantucket wedding costs money. You wouldn’t understand that because you’ve chosen this little military life, but some families still value presentation.”
My fingers went still around the pen.
Tiffany.
Of course.
Tiffany was Janet’s daughter from her first marriage, though Janet had spent the last decade trying to smuggle her into the Owen family like a missing heir. Tiffany had grown up learning that beauty was labor and entitlement was an inheritance. She was twenty-eight, blonde, polished, and perpetually exhausted by the burden of being admired. Her engagement to Bradford Hale IV had been treated like a merger between two coastal economies. Nantucket. Sailcloth tents. Hydrangeas imported as if Massachusetts had banned flowers. Hand-calligraphed oyster-shell place cards. A welcome dinner. A farewell brunch. A custom champagne tower.
Apparently, my dead mother was expected to pay for it.
