Chapter 3 - The Story Written on Faded Cloth
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Claire, sweetheart… go back. This is your walk.”
Claire didn't step back. She knelt right there on the cold stone floor, completely heedless of the fifty-thousand-dollar imported French lace sweeping across the dusty flagstones.
She reached out and took both of my weathered, cracked hands into hers.
Her fingers were warm and trembling.
“Mrs. Hayes,” Claire whispered, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “Why are you sitting back here?”
“It’s fine, darling,” I murmured, tears blurring my vision. “I have a clear view of Benjamin. That’s all an old woman needs.”
Claire’s eyes dropped to the faded blue dress, tracing the uneven white stitches I had sewn along the wrist cuffs late last night under a dim twenty-watt bulb.
A single tear rolled down Claire’s cheek, landing softly on the frayed blue cotton.
“No, Mrs. Hayes,” Claire said, standing up and gently pulling me to my feet. “This isn’t fine. This is an insult to everything love is supposed to mean.”
She took the wireless lapel microphone from the bewildered coordinator, Victoria Vance, who had hurried down the side aisle with a horrified, flushed face.
May you like
Claire turned toward the altar, her voice carrying through the acoustic speakers with crystal clarity:
“Before I take another step toward Benjamin, there is something everyone in this room needs to know about his mother.”
