At a charity gala that fall, Beatrice cornered me near the dessert table.
“It’s quite something,” she said with a tight smile, eyes flicking to my baby bump. “Margaret is practically reinventing herself for you.”
I kept my voice calm. “People grow.”
Beatrice’s smile sharpened. “Or they get manipulated.”
I looked at her steadily. “If kindness feels like manipulation to you, that says more about your world than mine.”
Beatrice blinked, startled.
Behind her, Margaret approached, holding two glasses of sparkling water.
“Sarah,” Margaret said, handing me one, then turning to Beatrice with a cool gaze. “Beatrice. I’m afraid you’re needed across the room.”
Beatrice sputtered. “For what?”
Margaret’s smile was polite and lethal. “For silence,” she said, then walked away with me as if it were the most normal sentence in the world.
I stared at Margaret once we were out of earshot. “Did you just—”
Margaret exhaled. “Yes,” she said, and her cheeks flushed faintly. “I did.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both a little.
When our baby was born—a girl with dark hair and a stubborn little chin—Margaret arrived at the hospital with a bouquet and a softness in her eyes that made me swallow hard.