Beatrice pivoted toward Margaret. “Maggie, have you heard? Elena Richie is back in town again. Apparently she’s hosting some kind of private showing.”
Margaret nodded. “Yes. She invited Catherine and Sarah.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows lifted. “Sarah, too?”
“Yes,” Margaret repeated, and her voice left no room for debate.
Beatrice’s eyes narrowed slightly, then she leaned in as if sharing gossip. “I suppose it’s all very glamorous. Though I do wonder about… authenticity.”
I felt my stomach tighten. Beatrice loved a vague accusation. It gave her the thrill of cruelty without the burden of proof.
Margaret’s gaze sharpened. “What are you implying, Beatrice?”
Beatrice’s smile stayed sweet. “Nothing, of course. It’s just… some people reinvent themselves so thoroughly, you can’t help but wonder what else they’ve hidden.”
I knew she meant my mother. I knew she meant me. I knew she hated that a small-town teacher had stepped into her world and refused to bow.
My mother had warned me years ago: when people can’t control you, they try to control the story about you.
Beatrice’s friends drifted closer, pretending not to listen.