Lily, blessedly unaware, pointed at Beatrice’s hat. “Why do you have a bird on your head?”
Beatrice blinked. “It’s a fascinator.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “It’s fascinating.”
David coughed once, suspiciously like a laugh.
Beatrice’s smile tightened. “Children are so honest.”
“Yes,” Margaret said from beside us, her tone smooth. “It’s refreshing.”
Beatrice pivoted toward Margaret. “Maggie, have you heard? Elena Richie is back in town again. Apparently she’s hosting some kind of private showing.”
Margaret nodded. “Yes. She invited Catherine and Sarah.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows lifted. “Sarah, too?”
“Yes,” Margaret repeated, and her voice left no room for debate.
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed slightly, then she leaned in as if sharing gossip. “I suppose it’s all very glamorous. Though I do wonder about… authenticity.”
I felt my stomach tighten. Beatrice loved a vague accusation. It gave her the thrill of cruelty without the burden of proof.
Margaret’s gaze sharpened. “What are you implying, Beatrice?”
Beatrice’s smile stayed sweet. “Nothing, of course. It’s just… some people reinvent themselves so thoroughly, you can’t help but wonder what else they’ve hidden.”
I knew she meant my mother. I knew she meant me. I knew she hated that a small-town teacher had stepped into her world and refused to bow.
My mother had warned me years ago: when people can’t control you, they try to control the story about you.
Beatrice’s friends drifted closer, pretending not to listen.
Margaret’s voice stayed calm. “Catherine didn’t hide anything,” she said. “She lived her life. And Sarah has never pretended to be anyone but herself.”
Beatrice gave a light laugh. “Of course. But you know how people talk.”
Margaret’s mouth curved into something polite and dangerous. “Then perhaps people should learn to talk less.”
Beatrice blinked.
Margaret continued, tone still smooth. “Or talk about something useful. Like the scholarship fund we’re announcing today. Unless you’d like to make a donation, Beatrice.”
A few of the nearby women chuckled. Beatrice’s cheeks flushed.
“I was only making conversation,” Beatrice said quickly.
Margaret held her gaze. “Then make better conversation.”
The air changed. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough.
Beatrice muttered something about finding her seat and retreated.
David stared at his mother. “Mom,” he said softly when we were alone for a moment, “that was…”