Chapter 5
Celeste
The sound of Eleanor’s voice carries down the hallway before I even reach the kitchen, her crisp consonants slicing through the air like knives through butter. I pause at the doorway, watching her gesture at the counter with the controlled movements of a surgeon.
This is an odd take on grief. She’s not sitting quietly in a chair somewhere, staring at a photograph of her daughter, letting the loss wash over her in waves the way normal people do.
No. Eleanor Montgomery-Trace is standing in the middle of a catering kitchen the size of my apartment, pointing at a tray of hors d’oeuvres like it owes her money.
“The crostini are uneven,” she says. “They look homemade.”
“They are homemade, Mrs. Trace. That was the directive,” the woman next to her explains.
“The directive was rustic-elegant. These are just rustic. There’s a difference.”
I retreat from the kitchen doorway and flatten myself against the hallway wall, safely out of sight but close enough to hear.
It smells like roasted garlic and fresh flowers—an unsettling combination that rockets me backward to dinner parties Whit and I used to dread.
Back when Whit and I were still in college, my parents were aloof.
Eleanor was tyrannical, performing the role of doting mother for the crowd, but bullying Whitney in private.
Her clothes, her hair, her grades, her body—all weaponized.
How many events did we leave with Whitney in silent tears, me, her dutiful plus-one, trailing behind in silence knowing no words of encouragement could save her from her mother’s chronic criticism and condescension?
Those dinners always smelled just like this. Garlic. Flowers. And an undercurrent of tension so thick you could spread it on the crostini. Whitney used to prep me in the car beforehand like a cornerman before a boxing match.
“Avoid mentioning anything remotely political. That’d be entering a gun fight with a knife.
Never say a word about the new curtains unless you want to hear the entire saga of their selection.
And please, for the love of God, if she starts with any comments about my size, stomp on my foot before I lunge at her. ”
God, I miss her.
I peek through the archway to catch a cook passing Eleanor with a tray.
She stops him with a single raised finger, the way a traffic cop stops a semi.
She lifts a napkin, inspects something beneath it, replaces the napkin, and waves him on without comment.
The cook exhales like he’s been released from a hostage situation.
The woman standing next to Eleanor must be the event coordinator.
Or at least I’m assuming she is because she’s wearing a headset, holding a clipboard, and is radiating the specific brand of patience reserved for people who manage other people’s catastrophes for a living. She places a hand on Eleanor’s arm.
“Mrs. Trace. Everything is under control. I’ve done over two hundred events in this space, and I promise you, the crostini are beautiful. Why don’t you take a few minutes? Get some air. Let me handle this part so you can focus on getting through the day.”
Eleanor doesn’t respond right away. Her face twists up in that familiar expression that makes my skin restrict around my bones—a practiced pause she deploys when someone tells her something she disagrees with but she doesn’t want to argue about it publicly.
But make no mistake, she’ll corner you later and rip you to shreds in private.
I know, because this is the same look she gave me ten years ago when I told her Whitney’s engagement was off and Whit no longer wanted to speak to her mother.
“Fine,” Eleanor says. The single syllable carries enough frost to chill the hot trays.
After a single sharp inhale, I force myself to step around the corner and trespass into the kitchen.
It’s all stainless steel and organized chaos—caterers in black aprons moving between stations, steam rising from covered pans, trays of champagne flutes lined up like soldiers.
Eleanor stands at the center of it, impeccable in head-to-toe black Chanel.
Her auburn hair is pulled back so severely it seems to be holding her face in place, and her pearls sit against her collarbone with the quiet authority of heirlooms that have attended more funerals than I have.
She looks exactly the way she’s always looked: expensive, controlled, and slightly terrifying.
Her eyes land on me and something flickers behind them—surprise, calculation, then nothing. She irons her expression flat in under a second.
“Celeste.”
“Hello, Eleanor.”
We regard each other across ten feet of kitchen tile like two women who’ve both been in love with the same person and lost. Which, we have. We just lost her differently.
“I’m surprised to see you here. How’d you find out about the event?”
I want to screw up my face and call out the obvious, which is that obviously she invited me.
Did she really think I’m so cruel I wouldn’t attend Whitney’s funeral?
But I don’t feel like throwing the first punch on today of all days.
“I just got the information on Thursday. I tried to call you but the number wasn’t in service. ”
“Or perhaps you’re blocked,” Eleanor offers, her lips in a tight line.
“Fair.” I look around the bustling room. “Could we have a word?”
“Go ahead.”
“I meant privately. Maybe a walk? The courtyard looked—”
“Oh, yes, please. What a great idea.” The event coordinator materializes beside me with an eagerness that borders on desperate.
She wants Eleanor out of her kitchen the way sailors want storms off their horizon.
“The courtyard is gorgeous. The wisteria is in full bloom. I’ll make sure everything here stays on track. ”
Eleanor regards the coordinator the way one regards a fly that’s landed too close to one’s wine. But she doesn’t argue.
I pivot to the coordinator before we leave. “I’m sorry, I’m Celeste Brinley. I was wondering if there’ll be a chance during the service for people to speak? I’ve prepared something for Whitney and I’d like—”
“There is, but the speaking portion is typically reserved for family,” she says gently. Apologetically. Like she’s delivered this line before and knows it stings.
“I am family.”
“Oh, well in that case—”
Eleanor’s voice cuts in from behind me, cool and precise. “Celeste and Whitney hadn’t spoken in years. That hardly qualifies as family.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Not silent—pans still clank softly; someone adjusts a burner—but the words stop. The caterers develop a sudden, intense fascination with their cutting boards and mixing bowls.
I turn to face Eleanor. I spit out what’s burning the tip of my tongue before I can soften it, “How many years were you and Whitney estranged, Eleanor? Over a decade? So based on your own logic, are you the appropriate person to deliver the eulogy?”
Dammit. There it is. Not the first shot. But I definitely delivered the most lethal.
The air between us crystallizes. A cook near the stove accidentally scrapes a spoon against a pot, and the sound is deafening in the silence.
Eleanor surveys the room—the frozen caterers, the coordinator clutching her clipboard like a shield—and her mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. She eyes me like a cobra, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
I drop my head, shaking it in shame. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for—”
“Nonsense. Grief brings out heightened emotions.” Her voice is warm, measured, public. Which means the real storm is brewing for later. “I apologize for the disruption, everyone. Please continue.”
She touches my elbow before striding past me. “Let’s walk,” she hisses under her breath.
We exit through a side door into the courtyard, and the late-May air wraps around me like a shawl I didn’t ask for.
The Hamptons in spring is obscenely beautiful—the kind of beauty that feels like an insult when you’re this miserable.
Wisteria drapes from a wooden pergola in heavy, violet clusters.
A stone path winds through manicured hedges toward the lawn, which rolls out in an unbroken sheet of green toward the ocean.
The water beyond is flat and silver under a pale sky.
Somewhere, a bird is singing. It doesn’t know that Whitney is dead.
None of this knows. Nothing here cares. Nothing about this feels right.
The moment we’re out of earshot, I reach for Eleanor.
“I am really sorry,” I say, pulling her into a hug. “I shouldn’t have said that to you, especially not in front of your staff.”
Eleanor does not hug back.
She stands inside my arms the way a mannequin stands inside a dress—present but uninhabited.
Her body is rigid, her hands at her sides, and she gives off the faint, powdery scent of Chanel No.
5, which she has worn for as long as I’ve known her and which I will now forever associate with being held at an emotional distance.
I release her and step back.
“I’m also very sorry for your loss, Eleanor. You know how much I loved your daughter.”
The breeze catches a cluster of wisteria petals and sends them drifting between us like confetti at the wrong party. Eleanor watches them fall, then lifts her gaze to mine.
“How did you find out?”
Not thank you for coming. Not I know you loved her. How did you find out. Like the answer matters more than the sentiment.
“I received the letter from Valcott and Finch,” I say. “Something about Whitney’s will. And the funeral invitation was included.”
Eleanor’s forehead tightens. The movement is subtle—a fraction of tension above the brows—but I’ve been reading faces for twenty years. It’s my job to notice when fabric pulls wrong, when a seam sits a millimeter off. Faces are no different.
“Valcott and Finch,” she repeats. Flat. Testing the words.
“Yes.”