After They Drove the Dutiful Daughter Mad

I was carrying a tray of champagne when Nathan Vale asked my sister to marry him. He had meant to ask Lydia. Everyone in the room knew it. My parents had spent the week calling the dinner a celebration of "the next chapter," and the Vale family had brought a photographer. A white rose arrangement stood in the center of every table. Lydia wore the pale blue dress our mother had chosen for her, and Nathan wore a navy suit that made his narrow shoulders look almost straight. I had spent the afternoon checking the kitchen inventory, fixing the guest-room thermostat, and reminding our father that the west staircase railing still wobbled. At six-thirty, I'd changed into a black dress in the laundry room, where I could hear the dishwasher thumping through the wall. Now I stood near the service door while Nathan held a glass in one hand and Lydia's fingers in the other. "I know we've talked about doing this privately," he said. "But I don't want anyone here to think I take Lydia for granted." Lydia's smile looked careful. She glanced toward me. I thought she was looking for the photographer. Nathan lifted his glass. "To the woman who has made every difficult year worth getting through." My mother pressed her hands together. My father's face loosened into the proud, relieved expression he had worn since the Vale family offered to help refinance our inn. Nathan turned to Lydia. Then he let go of her hand. "I can't ask you to marry me," he said. The room went quiet around the clink of my tray. Lydia's fingers remained lifted for a second, as if they were still holding his. "What?" "I'm sorry," Nathan said. "I've tried to make myself believe I could give you the life you deserve. But I can't ask you to spend it worrying about my health." His cardiomyopathy had worsened the previous winter. I knew because I had driven him to two appointments when Lydia was away on a work trip. He had insisted that I keep the appointments secret, not because there was a medical mystery, but because he hated being treated like a diagnosis. I had not known he planned to use his illness as an explanation for breaking my sister's heart. Nathan looked at me. My tray tipped. Two glasses slid, struck each other, and spilled champagne across my hand. "I want to marry Elise," he said. My father crossed the room so fast that guests moved aside for him. "What did you do?" he demanded. I stared at Nathan. "Nothing." "You've been meeting him alone for months." "I drove him to the clinic twice." "You could have called a car," my mother said. Her voice had gone thin and pleasant, the way it did when she wanted the people around her to hear that she was being reasonable. Nathan took a step toward me. "Elise had nothing to do with this. I'm the one who—" "Don't," Lydia said. Nathan stopped. She was still holding her champagne glass. Her knuckles had gone white around the stem. She looked from him to me, then at the guests who had come to watch our family become more prosperous. "Is this a proposal?" she asked. Nathan swallowed. "Yes." "To my sister?" "I'm sorry." "That wasn't what I asked." He didn't answer. I set the tray on the nearest table before I dropped it. My father caught my wrist. "You should be ashamed." I pulled free. "I didn't know he was going to say that." "Of course you didn't," my mother murmured. "You're always so good at looking surprised." I could feel every face in the room trying to sort me into a story. A younger sister. A sick man. A broken engagement. A family inn with a looming loan and a rich family at the door. I wished I could be angry enough to make it simple. Instead, I looked at Lydia. "I'm sorry," I said. She set down her glass. "For what?" "For him doing this here." "That's not an answer." "No," I said. "It isn't." My father stepped between us. "This dinner is over." The guests began to leave, some too quickly and some with the lingering, apologetic slowness of people who wanted to hear more. Nathan stayed near the window, his face pale under the warm light. I walked through the service door with my wet hand curled against my skirt. Behind me, my father said my name as if he could still order me to turn around. I kept walking.