Chapter 11 - The Second WeddingOne year after Vivian’s wedding collapsed, I stood inside the same ballroom.
Not to social media.
Not to Manhattan society.
To my office.
She stood in the Harbor House lobby wearing jeans and a plain sweater.
No makeup.
No designer handbag.
For several seconds, I barely recognized her.
My assistant called upstairs.
“Your sister is here.”
I considered saying no.
Then I remembered my own words.
Forgiveness and access weren’t the same thing.
Access could change.
Slowly.
If earned.
I let her in.
Vivian sat across from my desk.
“I’m in therapy.”
I said nothing.
“Twice a week.”
“Good.”
“I stopped drinking.”
That surprised me.
“I didn’t know you had a drinking problem.”
“Neither did I.”
She stared at her hands.
“Apparently drinking champagne at eleven in the morning because you’re anxious isn’t sophisticated.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
She noticed.
“Was that almost a smile?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Right.”
Silence settled.
Then she pulled an envelope from her purse.
“I sold the apartment Alexander gave me.”
“He gave you an apartment?”
“Engagement gift.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t know.”
“I returned the ring. He told me to keep the apartment.”
“That sounds like him.”
“I sold it.”
She slid papers toward me.
“I want the money to go to Fairmont families.”
I didn’t touch them.
“How much?”
“Four point two million.”
My eyes widened.
“Vivian.”
“I don’t want credit.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because I don’t trust myself to do this without making it somehow about me.”
That was perhaps the most self-aware sentence I had ever heard from my sister.
I examined the documents.
A donor-advised fund.
Anonymous distributions.
Legitimate.
“You arranged this?”
“With an attorney.”
I nodded.
Then she took a breath.
“I’m not here to ask you to forgive me.”
I waited.
“I spent my whole life believing being loved meant being chosen over someone else.”
My throat tightened.
“If Mom complimented you, I thought it meant I was less beautiful. If Dad worried about you, I thought it meant he cared less about me. When Alexander respected you…”
She stopped.
“You thought he loved you less.”
“Yes.”
I looked down.
“For what it’s worth, Vivian, Alexander didn’t leave because he wanted me.”
“I know.”
“He and I weren’t—”
“I know you’re together now.”
My head snapped up.
She gave me a sad smile.
“You’re both terrible at secrecy.”
“How?”
“He stopped dating. You started smiling.”
“That’s your evidence?”
“Claire, you used to look at him like a complicated tax form.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Vivian’s eyes filled.
“I missed that.”
I sobered.
“Viv.”
“I’m sorry.”
This time the apology felt different.
No cameras.
No crisis.
Nothing to gain.
“I know.”
“Do you love him?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
It hurt her.
I could see that.
But she stayed seated.
“That’s going to take me time.”
“I understand.”
“But I’m not going to punish you for it.”
Something inside me loosened.
“Thank you.”
She stood.
At the door, she stopped.
“Can I ask something?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think we could ever be sisters again?”
I looked at her.
“I think we could become sisters for the first time.”
She cried.
So did I.
We didn’t hug.
Not yet.
But when she left, I didn’t feel relieved.
I felt hopeful.
That evening, I told Alexander everything.
We were in my apartment cooking pasta.
More accurately, I was cooking pasta while he endangered it.
“She knew about us?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Apparently I smile.”
“You do.”
“Not helping.”
He leaned against the counter.
“How did she react?”
“Like an adult.”
“Impressive.”
“Don’t be mean.”
He raised both hands.
“Sorry.”
I stirred the sauce.
“She donated the apartment money.”
He went quiet.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s…”
“I know.”
He came up behind me.
“Can I hug you?”
I smiled.
“You don’t normally ask.”
“I saw the documentary about burn trauma you made me watch.”
“That was for staff training.”
“I learned consent around scar sensitivity.”
I turned.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And trainable.”
I wrapped my arms around him.
He kissed my forehead.
Then he became strangely tense.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely something.”
He stepped back.
“Dinner first.”
“Alexander.”
“Claire.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing illegal.”
“That sentence is never reassuring.”
He reached into his pocket.
My heart stopped.
“No.”
His face changed.
“No?”
“Are you proposing?”
“Not anymore.”
I stared.
He slowly withdrew a small velvet box.
“Oh my God.”
“This went better in my head.”
“You were going to propose while I made spaghetti?”
“You hate elaborate restaurants.”
“That doesn’t mean spaghetti!”
“I panicked.”
I started laughing.
He did too.
Then he dropped to one knee.
The laughter disappeared.
The last time I had seen him kneel, five hundred people had been watching.
This time, it was only us.
No cameras.
No sister screaming.
No torn dress.
Alexander opened the box.
Inside was a simple oval diamond surrounded by tiny sapphires.
“Claire Mercer, the strangest and best thing that ever happened to me was watching my entire planned life collapse in one ballroom.”
I covered my mouth.
“I don’t love you because you saved Daniel.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I’m grateful that you did. I always will be. But I love you because you argue with me. Because you hate my refrigerators. Because you build homes for people everyone else forgets.”
He smiled.
“And because you make terrible pasta.”
“I’m making the pasta!”
“Then I apologize.”
I laughed through tears.
He took my hand.
“Marry me?”
I looked at the man kneeling in my kitchen.
“Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He stood and kissed me.
Then smoke filled the apartment.
I pulled away.
“The sauce!”
May you like
We burned dinner.
It became my favorite engagement story.
