Chapter 8: When the Letters Arrived
My mother called on a Saturday morning, eleven days after Francis Doyle sent the letters.
I was at Nora's.
Gerald was asleep on the radiator.
We were eating toast and not talking about anything in particular, which was a relief, because we had been talking about everything in particular for nearly two weeks.
I looked at my mother's name on the screen and showed it to Nora.
"You don't have to answer," Nora said.
"I know," I said.
"But I want to hear what she says when she thinks she can still fix it."
I answered.
"Juliet." My mother's voice was tight and very controlled.
"I've had a letter from a solicitor."
"I know," I said.
"You cannot be serious about this.
A legal claim.
Against your own family."
"I'm not filing a claim against the family, Mom.
I'm establishing that my signature was used without my consent on a legal document."
"It was a formality.
The venue had to—"
"My name on a release form I never signed is not a formality.
That's Francis's view, and he's quite well-versed in these things."
"You're going to destroy your sister's wedding over a technicality—"
"The venue has suspended the June 7th booking," I said.
"Pending review.
I didn't ask them to do that.
Francis informed them of the circumstances and they made their own decision."
A sharp silence.
"Juliet." Her voice dropped.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing to this family?"
"Yes," I said.
"I know exactly what I'm doing.
I'm making sure that what happened to me is documented.
So that it's real.
So that it's not just something that happened quietly while I embroidered a wedding dress and nobody told me." I kept my voice even.
"You made choices over four months that affected my life in very concrete ways.
The venue.
The dress.
The date.
I am now making one choice that affects yours.
I think that's quite measured, actually."
"Graham is threatening to involve his own solicitor."
"That's his right."
"He's saying the commission account was joint and that he—"
"Francis has the amendment request, the security footage, and Margot's documentation," I said.
"Graham is welcome to involve whoever he likes."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"Your father wants to speak to you," she said finally.
Her voice had changed.
The control had slipped slightly, the way a held breath finally releases.
"I'll call Dad separately," I said.
"When I'm ready."
"Juliet—"
"Mom." I stopped her.
Just once, gently but completely.
"I don't want to argue with you.
I'm not angry in the way you think I am.
I'm not trying to punish you." I paused.
"But I needed someone outside this family to see what happened and put it on paper.
Because inside this family, it was just going to become a story about how Juliet overreacted.
And I'm not willing to be that story."
A long silence.
When she spoke again, her voice was very quiet.
"I didn't think it would go this far," she said.
"I know," I said.
"I genuinely thought—"
"I know what you thought," I said.
"I know you thought I'd be sad for a while and then come around.
I know you thought it was better this way.
I know you were sure." I paused.
"But you were sure about all of it without asking me a single time."
She didn't answer.
"I'll call you next week," I said.
"After I've spoken to Dad."
I hung up.
Nora handed me a fresh piece of toast.
"Well," she said.
"Well," I said.
Gerald didn't move from the radiator.
The kitchen was warm and quiet.
Outside, somewhere, a June 7th was becoming uncertain.
A gown was waiting in a white atelier on Harbor Row.
May you like
A needle was still threaded in an embroidery frame on my kitchen table, ready for the last sixteen stems.
I ate my toast.
