It was a small white card. Plain. Not cream. Not gold.
It said one word.
Guest.
Not my name. Not “Stepmother.” Not “Laura.” Just Guest. The same word they’d put on the cards for people’s plus-ones. For the coworker somebody invited at the last minute. For strangers.
I picked it up. My fingers were shaking.
That’s when I smelled the perfume.
It was expensive. Heavy and sweet, like gardenias left too long in a hot car. I knew that perfume. For two years, it had been on the throw pillows in my living room. It had been on Hannah’s jacket
when she came home from dress fittings. It had been in the air of every room I walked into, about thirty seconds after Crystal walked out of it.
She was standing right behind me in a champagne-colored dress that probably cost more than
my first car. Her blond hair was swept up. Her makeup was perfect. She was fifty-one years old and she looked forty.
