o several guests.
“We planted the original tree in our parish garden,” she was saying. “Whenever I see white dogwood blossoms, I feel Anastasia’s spirit close to me.”
I stepped closer.
“She wasn’t that fragile.”
My mother turned.
At first, she didn’t recognize me.
She gave me the polite smile she used for staff.
“I’m sorry?”
I stopped three feet away.
“She wasn’t fragile,” I repeated. “She just needed enough distance from the people hurting her.”
Eleanor stared at me.
Then recognition hit.
The color disappeared from her face.
My father’s wineglass slipped from his hand and broke against the floor.
“Annie?”
Julian stepped backward.
“Oh my God.”
Clara looked from him to me.
“Who is she?”
My mother recovered first.
She grabbed my arms.
“Anastasia! What are you doing here? Where have you been? Arthur, call the car!”
I looked down at her hands.
“Take your hands off me.”
She froze.
“You are touching the lead designer of this event,” I continued. “And you are making a scene.”
Victoria stepped forward.
“Lead designer?”
Then her expression changed.
“Eleanor, what is happening?”
She pointed toward me.
“You told us your daughter died in 2014.”
People around us were beginning to listen.
My mother panicked.
“She was sick!”
Her voice rose.
“She ran away! She’s unstable!”
I reached into my jacket and pulled out my business cards.
“No.”
