“That doesn’t mean she belongs at our wedding!”
The sentence escaped before Claire could stop it.
Noah stared at her.
Around them, someone lowered a champagne glass.
An older gentleman in a black tuxedo turned away in disgust.
Claire’s father, Leonard Winslow, stepped forward.
“Perhaps everyone should calm down.”
Noah looked at him.
“My mother is soaking wet, and you’re asking me to calm down?”
Leonard glanced at Margaret.
“I’m sure this was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“No,” Noah said. “A misunderstanding is getting the wrong dinner order.”
He pointed toward the abandoned hose.
“This was a choice.”
Margaret touched his sleeve.
“Sweetheart, I don’t want trouble.”
Noah turned back to her.
For the first time since he had run down the steps, he truly looked at her.
He noticed how much thinner she had become.
How her fingers curved painfully around the handles of the cloth bag.
How carefully she stood, as though every movement required more effort than she wanted anyone to know.
And suddenly he understood that seventeen years was not just a number.
It was seventeen birthdays without her.
Seventeen Christmas mornings.
Seventeen Mother’s Days when he had sent flowers instead of going home.
Seventeen years of telling himself that someday, when his company was stable, when his work was less demanding, when his life was finally organized, he would make the trip.
He had mistaken financial support for love.
And now his mother was standing before him, shivering.
“Come inside,” he whispered.
Margaret glanced toward Claire.
