Chapter 2 - The Scent of Blood
The ballroom was an amphitheater of wealth and performance. Jackson’s fraternity brothers from Yale were clustered near the open bar, while Natalie’s high-society friends from the country club occupied the prime tables nearest the head dais.
As I walked back toward my seat at Table 1—the table designated for the groom’s family—I felt eyes tracking me. The rumors Natalie had seeded during cocktail hour were already taking root.
“Is that Eleanor?” a woman in a velvet dress whispered to her husband as I passed. “I heard she had a complete nervous breakdown this morning. Shaved her own head, destroyed her own clothes... terrible, isn't it? Poor Jackson.”
I did not lower my head. I walked with my back straight, my chin lifted, wearing the navy-blue silk dress Judith had tailored for me in two hours. Beside me, my sister Judith took her seat, placing her heavy leather handbag on the white linen table with a solid, satisfying thud.
“The room is full of vultures, Eleanor,” Judith muttered, pouring herself a glass of sparkling water. “Look at her father over there. Richard Evans hasn't stopped talking to the real estate brokers since six o'clock.”
I turned my eyes toward Richard Evans, Natalie’s father. He was a slick, silver-haired developer whose firm had been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy for two years—a fact my private investigators had uncovered months ago, though I had foolishly chosen to ignore it out of respect for Jackson's happiness. Richard was currently holding court near the stage, gesturing grandly with a cigar toward a group of commercial investors.
“He thinks the $120 million is going into a joint commercial venture on Monday,” I observed quietly.
“He thinks he’s saved,” Judith corrected. “Natalie promised him a piece of the pie. That’s why she needed you out of the way, Eleanor. An active, competent mother-in-law asks questions about balance sheets and corporate guarantees. An 'emotionally unstable' woman in a senior care facility signs whatever power of attorney her son places in front of her.”
Jackson approached our table. He looked flushed, his silk bow tie slightly crooked. He held two champagne flutes, his eyes avoiding mine until he was directly beside my chair.
“Mom,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of practiced patience—the tone one uses with a difficult child. “Natalie’s mother noticed you aren't sitting at the main dais. We set up a lovely place for you at the front table, but you’re sitting back here with Judith.”
“I prefer it here, Jackson,” I said smoothly. “I can see the whole room from this angle.”
Jackson leaned down, lowering his voice into an urgent whisper. “Look, about earlier... I’m sorry I snapped at you in the suite. But you have to understand how this looks. Natalie is stressed out. Her family has high expectations. You coming in with... with that story about your hair and the note... it just sounded insane, Mom. Who would do something like that?”
I looked into my son’s eyes—the same hazel eyes his father had when he looked at me across our first small apartment forty years ago.
“Who indeed, Jackson?” I replied softly. “Have you checked your phone messages from this morning?”
May you like
Jackson frowned, pulling his phone from his tuxedo pocket. “My battery died before the ceremony. Natalie kept it in her purse so I wouldn't be distracted.”
“Of course she did,” I said, taking a sip of water. “Make sure you charge it before the toasts start, sweetheart. You wouldn't want to miss anything important.”
