Chapter 1 - THE FUNERAL DRESS
“Good Lord, Margaret. You wore that?”
My daughter-in-law’s voice carried farther than she probably intended.
Or maybe exactly as far as she intended.
I was still standing beside my husband’s casket.
Arthur had been buried less than twenty minutes earlier.
The chapel smelled like lilies, rain, and old wood. People were still coming up to me, squeezing my hands, telling me how sorry they were.
I barely heard any of them.
After forty years of marriage, the man who had slept beside me every night was gone.
Then Brittany decided that was the perfect time to critique my dress.
She looked me up and down slowly.
Her mouth curled.
“That seriously looks like something from a clearance rack.”
The woman beside her covered a laugh with her hand.
My son Ethan’s face tightened.
“Brittany.”
“What?”
She shrugged.
“I’m just saying. This was Arthur’s funeral. You’d think she would’ve made an effort.”
I looked down at my black dress.
Simple neckline.
Long sleeves.
No visible label.
No diamonds.
No dramatic details.
Just clean lines and fabric so soft Arthur used to run his fingers over the sleeve whenever I wore it.
It had been made by hand in Milan.
There were only three like it in the world.
The final cost had been just under eighty thousand dollars.
But Brittany didn’t know any of that.
And at that moment, I didn’t care.
“My husband liked this dress,” I said quietly.
Brittany gave a little laugh.
“Well, Arthur was sweet.”
She leaned closer.
“But sweet men aren’t always fashionable men.”
Something inside me went still.
Ethan finally stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Brittany rolled her eyes.
“Oh, relax. Your mother knows I work in luxury fashion. She knows I have standards.”
She turned toward two women she had invited to the service.
One of them nodded like Brittany was giving a lecture.
“At my boutique,” Brittany continued, “we work with women who understand presentation.”
She glanced at me.
“Women with presence.”
I said nothing.
That bothered her.
People like Brittany hated silence because they couldn’t control what it meant.
She filled it quickly.
“Honestly, Margaret, next time you have an important event, call me first.”
“Next time?”
Her expression flickered.
She realized what she had said.
My husband’s funeral.
Next time.
For half a second, even Brittany looked embarrassed.
Then she recovered.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
She took my answer as surrender.
That was her mistake.
She pointed at my shoes next.
“And those? Please tell me they’re not the same pair you wore last Christmas.”
“They are.”
“I knew it.”
She laughed again.
“They look like flea market shoes.”
Ethan rubbed his forehead.
“Brittany, stop.”
Again, too soft.
Again, too late.
I had spent thirty-six hours arranging my husband’s burial.
I had chosen his suit.
Signed the papers.
Held his hand in the hospital until it became cold.
And my son was standing six feet away while his wife picked apart my clothes like I was an embarrassing stranger.
That hurt.
More than her words ever could.
Brittany folded her arms.
“When Ethan and I have children, I just hope I never let myself go.”
The room changed.
I saw it on people’s faces.
Shock.
Discomfort.
Pity.
I hated the pity most.
I looked directly at my son.
Ethan’s eyes dropped.
That answered a question I had never wanted to ask.
Would he defend me if defending me made his life uncomfortable?
Apparently not.
Brittany smiled and touched my arm.
“I have some older pieces I can lend you. They’re not current season, obviously, but they’d still be a step up.”
“That’s very kind.”
She looked pleased.
I leaned closer.
“So where are you working now?”
She blinked.
“You know where I work.”
“Remind me.”
“Bellamy & Rowe. Downtown flagship.”
She smiled proudly.
“The luxury boutique.”
“Yes.”
“I might be getting promoted soon, actually.”
“Really?”
“Management.”
I nodded.
“How wonderful.”
Brittany didn’t notice the way my fingers tightened around my handbag.
She didn’t know Bellamy & Rowe had seventeen locations.
She didn’t know Arthur and I had opened the first one in 1989.
She didn’t know the downtown flagship where she worked had been designed from plans I approved personally.
And she certainly didn’t know that after Arthur’s death, I now controlled fifty-eight percent of the company.
My husband had always said money was useful for two things.
Freedom.
And discovering who people really were.
That evening, I went home alone.
I took off my “flea market” shoes.
Then I walked upstairs to Arthur’s private office.
For years, our children had thought that room was mostly for taxes and household paperwork.
I sat behind his desk.
Turned on the computer.
Entered the security code.
Then I opened the internal employee directory.
I typed two words.
BRITTANY MORALES.
Her file appeared.
I clicked it.
The first thing I saw wasn’t a promotion recommendation.
It was a disciplinary warning.
Then a second.
Then a third.
I kept reading.
Five minutes later, I picked up my phone.
“Patricia?”
My longtime assistant answered immediately.
“Mrs. Reed?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
I stared at Brittany’s file.
“I want a full internal review of employee number 4471.”
Patricia paused.
Then quietly asked,
“Isn’t that your daughter-in-law?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“What exactly am I looking for?”
I scrolled down to the section marked CUSTOMER COMPLAINTS.
May you like
There were eleven.
“Everything.”
