She should know.
She should know.
The table held five pictures now, rather than the dozen or more from before. Off to the side, they’d included a generic photo of Barton in his favorite pose, looking up in faux-surprise as he faux-adjusted his shirt cuffs and flexed discreetly. He’d aged well, which came as no shock, given how much effort and money he devoted to the task.
Did he ever call his parents? During their marriage, she’d been the one to remember birthdays and anniversaries, the one to select Christmas gifts and ensure Annette and Alfred had company at Thanksgiving.
She should have known from the beginning who and what he was, simply from the way he treated his parents. Sure, he’d told her they were clinging and querulous, but hearing that should have been like hearing a man call his ex a crazy bitch: a reflection on him, rather than anything revelatory about the object of his contempt.
She hoped his second wife had taken some of his money in the divorce, unlike Rose.
Two more pictures featured Annette and Alfred themselves. One had been taken when they’d been attending some sort of charity ball. Annette could have been a queen, her posture regal in black satin and lace, her silver hair swept into lush waves, as Alfred—an aging James Bond in a formfitting tux—gazed down at her in admiring devotion.
In the other, Annette was laughing and batting her sweaty husband away as he hauled her into his arms at the finish line of a 5K.
They swam with piranhas, but their happy marriage had remained entirely inviolate.
Barton’s mother had taught Rose all about donning an icy-calm demeanor to deter human predators and protect her privacy, but Annette had never let that knowledge stop her from loving Alfred, Rose, or even her awful son. Never let it stop her from displaying that love openly, whether through expensive dinners and designer clothing, or through calls to the school board and photos on her Chippendale table.
Annette loved in full view of the public. Which meant she could be hurt there. Had been hurt there.
Definitely by Barton. Probably by Rose too, and the way she’d continually forced Annette and Alfred to chase her company after the divorce. To scheme and maneuver, all for the dubious pleasure of her presence.
Others had surely seen Annette’s pain, including unfriendly witnesses.
But Alfred would have comforted her. And had anyone dared feel sorry for her, dared mock her, even for an instant, she’d have poured the liquid nitrogen of her scorn over the schadenfreude of her detractors and shattered them with a flick of her elegant finger.
Why hadn’t Rose learned that lesson too?
Because—Jesus, she was going to need to buy stock in lotion-soft tissues—the last two pictures were of her.
Her in-laws didn’t have any recent photos, so these originated during her marriage. But Barton was nowhere to be found in either image. In the first, she was twenty-five again, a Christmas bow slapped off-center on her head as she posed, beaming, with a black cashmere sweater-dress they’d given her. Then she was maybe twenty-eight, dignified and resplendent in ebony satin for an arts charity event, standing in the middle of Annette and Alfred.
By that point, her marriage was already falling apart. But the evening had been wonderful anyway, especially once Annette had one glass too many of champagne and kept hiccupping through her giggles, while Alfred rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.
She’d forgotten the event.
She’d forgotten this picture.
In it, both of them were looking at her like…
Well, like Martin looked at Bea. With affection and pride and ineffable sadness, as they watched someone they loved slipping bit by bit out of their immediate orbit.
Please let someone love you.
“My dear, we had no idea you were—” Alfred stopped in the doorway. “What happened? Are you ill? Hurt?”
“I—” She stifled a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Alfred.”
Then he was holding her tight, that familiar expensive-cologne smell a blanket surrounding her. “Shhhh. Rosie, dearest, stop crying. Calm down, and tell us what’s wrong.”
Us. Because Annette had arrived too. Was holding her too. Was whispering that everything was fine, Rosie dearest, she didn’t need to keep apologizing, if she could please stop crying they’d both be very relieved, please pleasepleasestop crying.
When Rose resurfaced, she was sitting on a silk brocade settee, one former in-law on either side of her, still apologizing in a cracked voice.
“—basically had to buy my company, and I’m so sorry. You’ve always loved me, and I love you, so why I can’t seem to show that, I don’t—”
“Enough,” Alfred interrupted sternly, and Rose hiccupped into silence.
