Chapter 11: The Invitation

By morning the photo had two hundred thousand shares.

And it wasn't only me anymore.

The Harrington's review page had forty new one-star reviews overnight.

"Owner sleeps with brides. Classy."

"Wouldn't trust this place with my wedding."

"Do they charge extra for the owner?"

A couple who'd booked the ballroom for October emailed to cancel.

Somebody had found Cooper's grandfather's obituary and posted it with a laughing face.

My mother read every one of them at the kitchen table with her glasses on the end of her nose.

Then she did something I didn't catch in time.

She typed a comment under Mason's photo.

"I was in that room. I was eating wedding cake. He brought an ice pack because your mother hit her. Joan Stanhope, age 56."

She posted it with her real name and her real face.

By the time I saw it, two hundred strangers had replied calling her a liar, a hag, and an enabler.

"Mom."

"What? It's true."

"They don't care if it's true."

She looked at the replies for a long moment.

"Well," she said. "That one spelled 'enabler' wrong."

I made her delete it.

She grumbled, then deleted it, then made me a fried egg sandwich as an apology.

At nine I climbed the cinnamon stairs to the studio.

Cooper was sitting on the top step outside my door.

He had two coffees and a paper bag from the bakery downstairs.

"The baker says you're her first tenant who doesn't complain about the smell," he said.

"Why would anyone complain about the smell?"

"That's what I said."

He handed me a coffee and stood up.

He looked like he hadn't slept.

"I'm sorry," I said. "About your reviews. About the photo. You brought an ice pack, and now people are sending your grandfather's obituary around."

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