“Lenora,” she said sweetly, “this is getting embarrassing. Even for you.”
Lenora said nothing.
She could not.
The pain in her body was real, but beneath it something else had started to move, slow and deep. Not rage. Rage would have been easier. This was recognition. A terrible, trembling recognition that the moment her grandmother had warned her about had finally come.
When the time is right, baby, you’ll know.
For years, Lenora had wondered what Ruth meant. She had imagined grief, maybe. A deathbed confession. A family secret. A box of old photographs. She had not imagined this: her husband standing above her in a ballroom filled with wealthy strangers, his mistress watching, his mother pleased, her own pendant broken on the floor.
Darnell turned to the crowd, raising his hands as if he were the victim.
“I apologize, everyone,” he said, his voice suddenly smooth. “My wife has been under emotional strain for a long time. We’ve tried to manage it privately, but as you can see—”
