The baby shower was held at the Mercer estate, because Camille never did subtle after she discovered other people’s money. White roses swallowed the driveway. Blue balloons arched over the marble steps. A violinist played near the fountain, sawing sweetly through a song that sounded too much like a funeral hymn.
I arrived in black.
Camille saw me before anyone else did.
Her smile widened like a knife.
“Naomi,” she sang, crossing the room with one hand on her belly. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
Daniel stood behind her in a pale linen suit, his hand possessively spread over her stomach. He looked polished, proud, stupid. The kind of man who mistook silence for surrender.
“You look well,” he said.
“You look fertile,” I replied.
His smile twitched.
Camille laughed too loudly. “Still bitter? Oh, honey, don’t be. Life gives everyone different gifts.”
Around us, guests pretended not to listen. Daniel’s parents sat near the fireplace, his mother glittering with diamonds, his father watching me with the wary attention of a man who remembered I had read his contracts.
Camille leaned closer. “I hope this isn’t too hard for you. Seeing Daniel finally become a father.”
I looked at her belly.
“I imagine it’s hard for everyone.”
A year after she stole my husband, my former best friend mailed me an invitation to her baby shower. “Come celebrate our little miracle,” she wrote,
