I looked up at him so quickly my neck hurt.
“Know what?”
He swallowed. “Mr. Morris met with us three weeks ago. He said the bride’s family wanted everything handled discreetly. He showed us the property listing on his phone. Said it was his wife’s house and that you were traveling for work.”
The driveway seemed to narrow around us.
“He said I was traveling?”
“Yes.”
“And Chelsea?”
“She came to the tasting.” He lowered his voice. “They both did.”
Behind me, the front door opened.
Daniel stood in the hallway with one hand braced against the frame.
He was still wearing the pale blue shirt he had supposedly worn to work the night before. His collar was wrinkled. His eyes moved from the invoice to my face, and whatever explanation he had prepared disappeared before he spoke.
“Haley.”
I had heard him say my name for nine years. Across crowded restaurants. Half-asleep in the dark. Through hospital doors when my father had his heart attack.
Now it sounded like something he had taken from me.
“Were you the groom?” I asked.
Chelsea made a sound behind him, small and frightened.
Daniel did not answer.
I turned toward the house.
Chelsea stood at the bottom of the stairs in her wedding dress, one hand flat against her stomach. My mother had appeared behind her, already reaching for Chelsea’s shoulder. Dad stood farther back in the kitchen, his jaw set the way it always was when he had decided anger would be easier than shame.
“Say it,” I said.
Chelsea’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Daniel stepped onto the porch. “This isn’t how we wanted you to find out.”
A laugh escaped me, sharp enough to hurt.
“You wanted me to find out?”
“Not like this,” he said.
“Then how?”
His face tightened. “We were going to tell you.”
“When? Before or after you held a wedding in my backyard?”
Chelsea began to cry. Mom pulled her closer, as if Chelsea were the injured one.
“Haley,” Mom said, “please lower your voice.”
