Chapter 8: Aunt Reagan

Hayden's mother lived in Fox Chapel, in a white house with columns and a lawn somebody else mowed.

I'd spent three Christmases there, always coming in through the kitchen with a pie.

This time I came in through the front door on Anson's arm.

I wore a green dress my bolt-up partner had lent me, and my good boots.

"You're wearing boots," Anson said on the step.

"You married an ironworker."

"I'm aware." He rang the bell. "I just want to see her face."

Hayden's mother opened the door herself.

She was fifty-eight, thin, in pearls, with the same blue eyes as her son and none of his smile.

She looked at my boots.

Then she looked at Anson, her late husband's little brother.

"Anson," she said.

"Reagan's never been a guest here before," he said. "Only family."

She didn't answer. She stood aside.

Dinner was in the long dining room, under a chandelier that tinkled whenever a truck went by.

Hayden sat across from me.

Kaylee sat beside him in a pale pink dress that showed off her bump, filming the table settings for her followers.

My stepmother sat beside Kaylee, beaming at the silverware.

She'd come as the bride's mother. She didn't look at me once.

Hayden picked up his wineglass.

"Reagan," he said. "Good of you to come."

His mother set her fork down.

"Hayden."

"What?"

"She is your uncle's wife," his mother said, cold as the lake in March. "In my house you will address her properly."

Hayden stared at her.

Kaylee's phone dipped.

"You're joking," he said.

"I am not."

The table waited.

Hayden's jaw worked.

"Aunt Reagan," he said.

"Yes, sweetheart?" I said.

Anson made a small sound into his water glass.

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