Chapter 4
The rich Bordeaux slips down my throat. Mary watches me over the rim of her glass, scrutinizing my reaction like I’m a glass exhibit.
The fireplace casts amber light across her flawless features, creating shadows that momentarily make her appear frightening rather than sophisticated.
Yet, I take another sip, holding her gaze, refusing to look away first.
Mary breaks the stare, setting her glass down with a delicate clink that echoes like a command. The room rearranges itself around her as she moves to stand before the fireplace—claiming warmth, light, and attention. Strategic positioning. Center stage.
“This wine,” Mary says to no one in particular, “reminds me of that vineyard in Provence we visited the summer before Cillian proposed to his wife.”
His wife. As if they are still married.
The shift is seamless. Meanwhile, Bea is hovering at the room’s edges, clutching a silver tray like a shield. Her up-right posture begins to crack, shoulders curving inward despite the expensive cashmere draped over them.
“You remember, don’t you?” Mary continues, voice honey-sweet. “That charming coastal town with the blue shutters?”
Bea nods automatically, her fingers whitening around the tray’s edge. “Cassis.”
“Cassis!” Mary exclaims with manufactured delight. “Yes, of course. Arthur, wasn’t that sunset spectacular the night Cillian got down on one knee? Right on those white cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean.”
Arthur gives a noncommittal sound from his chair, eyes fixed on his Bordeaux.
Meanwhile, Cillian tenses beside me, his body becoming a rigid line of resistance.
My spine stiffens in response. Mary’s words paint a picture meant to exclude me—a history I wasn’t part of, a romantic moment with another woman, a family united in matching emerald.
A past that was meant to become a never-ending future.
“The restaurant had fairy lights strung along the terrace,” Mary continues, now including the entire room in her performance.
Her hands gesture elegantly. “The waiter was in on it, of course. He brought the ring with the champagne and strawberries. Bea was stunning that night in that little white dress. Do you still have it, dear?”
Bea’s face flushes deep crimson, visible even in the firelight. Her eyes fix on some middle distance, deliberately avoiding contact. “I don’t—“ she begins, her voice cracking. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not so very long,” Mary counters with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Only six years. I have the photos in an album somewhere. You looked like a magazine cover, didn’t she, Cillian?”
I watch Bea’s mortification deepen, her grip on the tray now so tight I worry the metal might bend.
This isn’t just Mary’s attack on me; it’s her weaponizing her son’s ex, using her as both shield and sword without regard for the damage.
It also makes me think: would Mary like me more if I was more like Bea? Silent. Bendable. Unseen.
“Speaking of Cassis,” Cillian says, effectively avoiding his mother’s question, “Star did a two-week art retreat near Cassis last year. Her series on the limestone formations sold out within an hour.”
He’s giving me space in the narrative, and I love him for it.
Mary’s smile freezes, the expression becoming a rictus. Her fingers tighten around her wine glass, before she catches herself.
“How... industrious,” she says, the pause calibrated for maximum dismissal. “Bea, didn’t your cousin have a villa near there? The one who works with that charity—what was it again?”
The pivot is so swift I almost admire its execution. Mary hasn’t acknowledged my artistic achievement, nor has she looked at me directly. Instead, she’s redirected to Bea, pulling the spotlight back to where she can control it.
“The International Children’s Fund,” Bea supplies automatically, then winces as if the information was extracted rather than offered.
“Yes, that’s it! She hosted that wonderful benefit dinner where you played the piano. You were always so talented with music.”
I sip my wine and study Mary over the rim of my glass. The attack-retreat-regroup pattern becomes clearer with each exchange. She constructing Cillian and Bea as the ideal couple. The Brown legacy.
Cillian shifts closer to me on the sofa, his thigh pressing against mine in solidarity. His warmth anchors me against Mary’s cold current.
“Star plays too,” he offers, another chess move. “Jazz piano mainly, though she’s too modest about it.”
I don’t, actually. I took three months of lessons in college before dropping them to focus on painting. But I understand the gesture.
Mary doesn’t pause this time, doesn’t acknowledge Cillian’s words at all. “Remember that Christmas you played for the governor?” Mary continues as if Cillian hadn’t spoken. “He said you reminded him of his daughter—the one who went to Juilliard.”
She moves physically closer to Bea, reaching out to straighten the already-perfect collar of her sweater. If you like her so much, Mary, why don’t you date her yourself?
Bea’s eyes flick to mine. “I don’t think the governor actually has a daughter who went to Juilliard.”
A snort slips out. Mary glares at me for a moment before laughing like her ex-daughter-in-law made a joke. “Well, he certainly meant it as a compliment, dear.”
Still, I watch the subtle shift in power. Mary tightens her grip on the conversation, which pulls Bea back into compliance. The room seems to contract around Mary’s will, the air thickening with expectation.
Arthur coughs but says nothing, turning a page in his book with deliberate focus. His non-participation is its own statement.
Mary takes her silence as surrender and presses her advantage. “Speaking of music, did I tell you we’ve kept your piano tuned, Bea? Just last month, in fact. I always hoped you might play for us again someday.”
I meet Cillian’s eyes, finding in them a mix of frustration and determination that mirrors my own. This is the game, then. Mary rewriting history and future simultaneously, crafting a narrative where I don’t exist and Bea never left.
But narratives can be disrupted. Canvas can be repainted. I’ve built my artistic career on finding beauty in the unexpected, in breaking patterns to reveal new truths.
I take another sip of the excellent Bordeaux, feeling its warmth spread through me—not as comfort but as fuel. Mary Brown may control this room, this house, this carefully constructed illusion of family.
But she doesn’t control us.
The minutes slip in a series of manic topics.
When one doesn’t gain Cillian’s attention, Mary quickly pivots.
“Be looked so elegant in that white ski suit.” “And then that summer—the sailing excursion in Maine!” “Bea in that gold dress that made the society page.” “The Christmas Bea gave Cillian his grandfather’s restored pocket watch—”
“That wasn’t me with the pocket watch,” Bea murmurs. “That was his aunt Margaret.”
Mary doesn’t slow down. ”—and the Valentine’s Day when the roses filled the entire apartment.”
On and on, despite Cillian’s gray rocking.
At one point, Mary retrieves scrapbooks and hands them out.
“You both looked so content together,” Mary sighs, her voice taking on a dreamy quality that borders on delusion. “Everyone said so. Like you were made for each other.”
Across the room, Arthur quietly closes his book and sets it aside. His soft, calm eyes find mine briefly.
Mary continues turning pages. “And here’s the cake tasting at Bellamy’s. Bea, you were so specific about the buttercream. Remember how you insisted on the French technique?”
“Mary,” she says softly, “perhaps we should—”
“And this one,” Mary interrupts, flipping to another page with increasing speed, “was the final fitting for Bea’s dress. Just look at how it caught the light. Like something from a fairy tale.”
The tray wobbles in Bea’s grasp. She sets the silver down on the nearest table with a dull thud, the sound marking a decision solidifying within her.
“Mary, please stop. This isn’t—This isn’t appropriate.”
The plea lingers uncomfortably. Mary freezes, fingers poised to turn another page. For a moment, I think she recognizes the cruelty in what she is doing to Cillian. me, and Bea.
But then her face hardens. “I’m simply sharing happy memories, dear. There’s nothing inappropriate about family history, especially given your father’s situation.”
Bea’s eyes widen. What is going on? An undertone that I do not understand.
“That’s enough, Mother,” Cillian says, his voice low but carrying the weight of years of accumulated patience. “Put. The album. Away.”
It is not a request. The command hangs in the air between them, son challenging mother, adult confronting manipulator.
Mary looks up at him, genuine confusion crossing her features. She does not understand what she has done wrong, cannot comprehend why her narrative has been rejected.
“I’m just trying to make everyone feel welcome,” she insists. “To remember the lovely times we’ve all shared.”
“We haven’t all shared them,” Cillian corrects, gesturing toward me. “Star wasn’t there, and those moments are over. They’re not coming back.” He then returns to my side where his hand finds mine again.
Mary looks from our joined hands to Bea, seeking the ally she has spent the evening weaponizing.
“He’s right, Mary,” she says softly. “It’s over.”
“No,” she whispers, turning pages with increasing desperation. “Look, here we are at the engagement party. And here’s the shower your aunt hosted. And this—”
Each page flip grows more frantic.
I set my wine glass down on the hearth with quiet finality and meet Cillian’s eyes. We have already won. Not by confrontation or argument or matching Mary’s manipulations with our own. We have won by simply existing.
The fire cackles in the grate, consuming its fuel with quiet efficiency. Mary’s breathing grows more ragged as she turns the final pages, finding no salvation in the preserved past. Her desperate reach for control collapses in on itself.
No one speaks.
No one needs to.
The album lies open on Mary’s lap, its power spent, its narrative rejected. And in the sudden hush, with only the sound of flames consuming wood, something new begins to take shape.