She looked down.
Maren cleared her throat gently. “We can discuss a payment arrangement. But the balance is owed. My crew has to be paid for the work already committed.”
I turned to Maren. “I’m sorry your team got dragged into this. I won’t be paying the bill, because I did not authorize the event. But I do hope you can work something out with Eden directly that doesn’t hurt your staff.”
Maren nodded. “We can set up installments.”
Eden stared at me like she expected me to rescue her anyway.
That was the old pattern.
She made the mess. I softened the landing. She took the relief and called it family.
Not today.
“I’m not covering it,” I said.
Brett closed his eyes briefly.
Eden whispered, “You’d let me stand here humiliated.”
“No,” I said. “You brought humiliation with you. I’m letting you carry it home.”
She turned away, pressing a hand over her mouth.
For the next hour, the party died slowly.
Maren spoke with Eden and Brett near the van, pen moving over revised paperwork. Guests quietly left in pairs. Some hugged Eden. Some gave me curious looks, as if trying to decide whether I was cruel or just tired. The crew began packing what could be packed. The floral arch never reached the dock. The tent came down before it had ever fully stood.
By sunset, the driveway was almost empty.
Colleen and I stayed outside, helping wind the string lights back into neat loops because the crew had done enough and because my hands needed something to do. The sky turned peach behind the trees. A loon called from the far side of the lake. The cabin settled back into itself, cedar and shadow and quiet.
Eden stood near her SUV, arms wrapped around herself.
Brett was inside the vehicle, staring straight ahead.
She walked over to me slowly.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The grass was flattened where the tent had been. There were little square marks in the dirt from the table legs. One white flower petal had fallen near my boot.
“I didn’t think you’d actually stop it,” she said.
“I know.”
Her eyes shone, but her voice was flat. “I thought once it was here, you’d just let it happen.”
“I know that too.”
That seemed to hurt her more than if I had raised my voice.
She looked toward the lake. “I miss him.”
“Pop?”
She nodded.
The answer softened something in me, but not enough to open the door she wanted.
“I do too.”
“He made me feel like a guest at the end.”
I looked at her.
For the first time that day, she sounded like my sister. Not the woman in white linen trying to turn my cabin into a backdrop. My sister. The girl who used to fall asleep on the porch swing with mosquito bites on her ankles and melted popsicle on her shirt.