Chapter 1 - THE WHITE ORCHID AND THE LIE
“You can sit in the back, Marianne. I'm the woman standing beside him now.”
The mafia boss's mistress took the mother-of-the-bride corsage from his wife—but when her husband pinned it on the younger woman, his wife asked him one question that made him look away.
My husband pinned a white orchid corsage onto his mistress's red dress while I stood six feet away.
It was supposed to be mine.
Tomorrow, our only daughter was getting married.
And the woman sleeping with my husband had decided she would be standing beside him when the family photographs were taken.
“Try not to look so upset, Marianne,” she said. “You'll still be invited.”
My husband didn't correct her.
He adjusted the little silver pin against her shoulder.
“There,” he said. “Perfect.”
I looked at his hands.
Those hands had once held our newborn daughter so carefully that he was afraid to stand up.
Now they were fastening another woman's flowers.
“Anthony,” I said. “That's my corsage.”
He finally looked at me.
“It's just flowers.”
I was fifty-three years old.
I'd been married to Anthony DeLuca for twenty-nine years.
In Chicago, people knew my husband as a man who could end an argument without speaking.
He owned shipping companies, restaurants, and businesses nobody discussed at Sunday dinner.
But when our daughter was born, he was simply a frightened twenty-six-year-old holding a seven-pound baby.
He'd cried when she wrapped her tiny fingers around his thumb.
“I'm going to give her everything,” he whispered.
I believed him.
For twenty-seven years, I helped him keep that promise.
I attended school plays when he was away.
I sat through parent-teacher conferences alone.
I learned how to fix a bicycle, assemble a dollhouse, and explain why Daddy couldn't always come home for Christmas Eve.
And tomorrow, our little girl was marrying the man she loved.
I'd spent eight months helping her prepare.
Now Anthony's mistress was standing in our living room, wearing the flowers our daughter had chosen for me.
Her name was Brianna.
Thirty-two.
Beautiful blonde hair, perfect makeup, and a fitted red gown that made no attempt to disguise what she wanted.
She'd been seeing my husband for almost two years.
I'd learned about her six weeks earlier.
Anthony had promised we would discuss our future after the wedding.
Apparently, he'd already made other plans.
“Brianna,” I said, “please take that off.”
She smiled.
“Why? It looks better with my dress.”
I looked at Anthony.
“Tell her.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Marianne, don't make tomorrow difficult for Emily.”
I stared at him.
“For Emily?”
“Yes. It's her wedding. She shouldn't have to deal with our problems.”
Brianna slipped her hand into his.
“Exactly.”
Then she looked at me.
“When the photographer asks for family pictures, I'd appreciate it if you didn't insist on standing next to Anthony.”
My mouth went dry.
“Excuse me?”
She tilted her head.
“I don't want our first official picture together ruined by an awkward argument.”
I waited for my husband to laugh.
To tell her she'd gone too far.
Instead, he studied the carpet.
“Anthony?”
He looked up.
“Just let me handle the photographs, Marianne.”
I felt something inside me break.
Not loudly.
There was no dramatic rush of anger.
Just the terrible realization that the man I'd loved since I was twenty-four was willing to make me a stranger at my own daughter's wedding.
I walked toward the fireplace.
Above it hung a photograph of Emily at five years old.
Missing two front teeth.
Holding a paper crown she'd made in kindergarten.
Anthony stood beside her, laughing.
I remembered that afternoon.
He'd come home early because she had begged him to attend her school performance.
He'd surprised both of us.
That night, after Emily fell asleep, he'd told me he hated how much he'd missed.
“I'll do better,” he promised.
And for a while, he did.
I touched the photograph.
“Do you remember when Emily broke her arm?” I asked.
Anthony frowned.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“She was nine. You were in Las Vegas.”
He looked away.
“She cried all night asking for you.”
“Marianne.”
“I told her you loved her. That if you could have been there, you would have.”
My voice trembled.
“I spent twenty-seven years making sure our daughter never doubted your love.”
Brianna sighed.
“Are we seriously going to go through every little thing he's done wrong?”
I turned toward her.
“No. We're going to talk about the one thing he's doing wrong right now.”
Anthony stepped between us.
“Enough. Brianna is coming tomorrow, and I expect you to be civil.”
I looked at him.
“Will you walk Emily down the aisle?”
“Of course.”
“And when she reaches the altar, you'll give her hand to Michael?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Then when you turn around and look at the front row, who do you expect to see sitting in her mother's place?”
He didn't answer.
Brianna did.
“Me.”
One word.
Without shame.
Without hesitation.
Anthony looked at her.
Then he looked at me.
And said nothing.
I nodded slowly.
There was a time when his silence would have destroyed me.
Tonight, it clarified something.
He wasn't confused about what was right.
He simply wanted me to accept what was wrong.
I picked up my handbag.
Anthony frowned.
“Where are you going?”
“To call our daughter.”
His expression changed.
“Marianne, don't involve Emily.”
I stopped.
“She's already involved.”
“Tomorrow is supposed to be the happiest day of her life.”
“Yes,” I said. “And you're asking her mother to disappear from it.”
Brianna crossed her arms.
“Anthony, you promised me we wouldn't have to hide anymore.”
He immediately reached for her.
“I know, sweetheart.”
I looked at them.
Then I asked my husband one last question.
“Anthony, if Emily were standing here and her husband treated her the way you're treating me, would you tell her to be civil?”
His hand fell from Brianna's waist.
For the first time that evening, he couldn't meet my eyes.
I waited.
Then he whispered, “That's different.”
I shook my head.
“No. It isn't.”
I walked toward the door.
And that was when Anthony said something that stopped me.
“Marianne, you can't call Emily tonight.”
I turned.
“Why not?”
He looked at Brianna.
She looked suddenly uncomfortable.
“Because,” he said quietly, “Emily already knows you're not sitting with me tomorrow.”
I felt the room go still.
“What?”
He swallowed.
“I told her you'd agreed.”
I stared at him.
“You told our daughter I agreed to give my place to your mistress?”
He didn't answer.
Then Brianna spoke.
“Anthony, that's not exactly what you told her.”
My husband turned sharply.
“Brianna. Stop.”
But she was already looking at me.
Her confidence had disappeared.
“Marianne,” she said slowly, “Emily didn't just think you agreed.”
I gripped the doorframe.
“What did my daughter think?”
Brianna looked toward Anthony.
Then she answered.
“She thinks you asked him to walk you out of the wedding before the ceremony even begins.”
I stared at my husband.
For twenty-seven years, I'd protected his relationship with our daughter.
And now he had apparently used that same daughter to protect his affair.
I took out my phone.
Anthony moved toward me.
“Marianne, please. Let me explain before you call her.”
I looked at him.
May you like
“Then explain why our daughter believes her own mother doesn't want to watch her get married.”
And when he reached for my phone, I realized there was something else he was desperate to keep Emily from hearing.
