Chapter 3
Brielle stitched the torn blue fabric with the same care her mother had taught her when she was seven.
She could not make the cut disappear. Instead she folded a line of silver lace across the damage and joined it to the dress's existing pattern. Under the window, the repair looked like a deliberate ribbon of stars.
Naomi watched every movement. "You shouldn't have had to do this," she said.
Brielle tucked the needle into its cushion. "Neither should you. But you still get to wear your dress."
Downstairs, Celeste stood beside a cream-colored garment bag. When Naomi came down in the repaired gown, she gripped the stair railing so tightly her knuckles blanched.
"That's not safe," she said. "It could tear again."
"Brielle reinforced it," Naomi answered. She turned in a circle, the skirt rustling softly. "See?"
Marcus studied the careful seam. "You fixed it?"
"Enough for today," Brielle said. She did not ask whether he was impressed. The question would only invite another test.
At the elementary-school ceremony, Brielle sat in the back row because Celeste had purchased three family tickets, not four. Naomi kept searching the audience until Brielle waved from beside the doors. When the principal called Naomi's name, the little girl crossed the stage in her pale-blue cap, holding her certificate high.
During the ceremony, Brielle studied the rows of parents lifting phones above their heads. She wondered which images would last longer than the people inside them. Her mother's photographs filled boxes because Lillian had believed even imperfect celebrations deserved to be remembered. Marcus used to tease her about taking six pictures of the same birthday cake. Now he sat in the front row beside Celeste, smiling whenever a camera turned his way, while Brielle stood near an exit and tried not to feel invisible.
After Naomi received her certificate, a teacher invited the children to say one thing they hoped to learn next year. Naomi spoke into the microphone so softly that Brielle leaned forward to hear. She said she wanted to learn how to make things that lasted. A few parents applauded politely. Brielle wiped her cheek before anyone could notice. The dress had done its work: it carried Naomi across the stage without splitting. Brielle was proud of that and sad that she couldn't share the pride with her father. When Celeste crossed the lobby toward the woman in gray, Brielle followed only because she wanted to ask about taking Naomi's picture by the school garden. She had not gone looking for a conspiracy. That made the overheard exchange feel more alarming. It had been placed in the path of an ordinary celebration.
For several minutes, Brielle allowed herself to be happy.
Then she saw Celeste speaking to a woman near the auditorium exit. The woman wore a tailored gray suit and carried a folder embossed with the logo of Hale Development. Brielle knew the logo. A sign bearing it had appeared two weeks earlier on a vacant building across from her mother's sewing studio.
Celeste reached into her handbag and handed the woman a folded document. The woman said something that made Celeste glance toward Brielle.
Brielle stepped behind a column.
"He signed the authorization," the woman said, her voice low but clear. "We need the second signature before Friday."
"I'll handle June," Celeste replied. "The older girl is the only problem."
The woman tapped the folder. "Victor does not extend deadlines."
Celeste smiled without warmth. "Neither do I."
Brielle stayed where she was until they separated. She had known that Celeste disliked her visits to the studio. She had not known there was a deadline attached to keeping her away.
At the reception, Naomi approached with two cookies and a paper plate. "For us," she said, then lowered her voice. "You look scared."
"I heard Celeste talking about the studio."
"Are they selling it?"
"I don't know."
Naomi put one cookie back on the plate. "Mommy said the studio would always have a blue door."
The door had been repainted white in March. Celeste said the blue looked unprofessional. Brielle had argued until Marcus told her that a building mattered less than keeping the family together.
Brielle suddenly wondered if the paint had been another way to erase a boundary.
That evening, after the house quieted, she went to the kitchen and called her maternal grandmother, June Ellis. They had been speaking less because Marcus said June stirred up trouble. Now Brielle heard the warmth in June's voice and felt ashamed she had let their calls become so brief.
"Grandma, did Mom have a blue cabinet at the studio?"
June did not answer right away.
"Where did you hear about that?" she asked.
"Mom left me a note."
May you like
A chair scraped across June's floor.
"Brielle," June said, all warmth replaced by alarm, "do not tell your father about that note. And whatever you do, don't let Celeste know you have the key."
