David squeezed my hand as we did our final walkthrough.
“Stop worrying about Victoria,” he said, reading my mind as always. “This is Emma’s day.”
But at 2 p.m., an hour before the ceremony, Victoria’s Tesla pulled up the gravel drive. She stepped out in a designer dress that probably cost more than our monthly mortgage, her husband Robert trailing behind, looking uncomfortable in his tailored suit.
“Rachel.”
Victoria air-kissed me, her perfume overwhelming.
“Oh my, how rustic. I suppose this is charming in its own way.”
She glanced at the barn where the reception would be held.
“Very authentic. Very you.”
I forced a smile.
“Emma loves it here.”
“Of course she does, sweetie. She grew up with simple tastes.”
Victoria’s eyes swept over my dress, an elegant but modest navy blue number I’d found at Nordstrom Rack.
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
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