Fiona read the seating chart twice. Her cousin's name remained beside hers. She considered claiming that she needed to sit near the door, but the bride was already being asked where the spare batteries were, and Fiona couldn't bring herself to add another problem.
She and Kate had not spoken properly since their grandmother's belongings were divided. The disagreement concerned a necklace. The real argument concerned who had visited more often, who had been loved more, and who had the right to decide what a life should leave behind. Neither woman would have described it that way at the time.
Kate arrived carrying a cardigan and an expression of careful politeness. They greeted each other, admired the flowers, and discovered how long two people could discuss weather at a wedding. Around them, chairs scraped and glasses rang. Fiona wished the speeches would begin.
When the starter arrived, Kate reached for her water. The necklace caught the light at her throat. Fiona looked away too late.
“I nearly didn't wear it,” Kate said.
Fiona put down her fork. “You don't have to explain.”
“I think maybe I do.”
The room was too noisy for a serious conversation, which made it possible to have one quietly. Kate said their grandmother had offered her the necklace during a hospital visit. She had assumed Fiona knew. Fiona said she had seen it disappear from the drawer and assumed the worst. Both had then collected evidence for an accusation neither had asked the other to answer.
It was a partial explanation, not a complete acquittal. There had been unkind messages. Relatives had been drawn into the dispute. Fiona could not recover the years by correcting one misunderstanding. She could admit that she had enjoyed telling the version in which she was entirely right.
The bride's father stood to speak, and they stopped. He told a story about teaching his daughter to ride a bicycle. It wasn't especially original, but he cried halfway through, and half the room cried with him. Fiona saw Kate reach into her bag for a tissue. She offered the clean one she had already taken out.
After the meal, they walked onto the terrace. Kate asked whether Fiona wanted the necklace. Fiona looked at it and was surprised by how little she wanted to own it now that she no longer had to imagine it had been taken.
“Keep it,” she said. “But I want a photograph of Gran wearing it, if you have one.”
Kate thought she did. She also had a recipe card Fiona had been looking for. They made a practical arrangement to exchange copies, a small bridge sturdy enough for the next conversation.
During the marriage service, the minister had spoken about love keeping no record of wrongs. Fiona had inwardly objected. Some things needed remembering. Standing on the terrace, she wondered whether remembering a hurt was different from polishing it until it became the most important thing she knew about another person.
Inside, the first dance began. Kate asked whether Fiona remembered their grandmother dancing in the kitchen. Fiona did, badly and with great enthusiasm. They stood by the glass doors and laughed at the same remembered gesture.
When they returned to the table, Fiona moved her bag from the empty seat. Kate sat down without asking.
