Chapter 1 - THE CLUTCH SHE EMPTIED ON THE FLOOR.
Celeste Whitmore seized the pearl-gray clutch from Elena’s hands before the banquet attendant could explain.
“Then you won’t mind showing everyone what a girl like you carries into a room like this.”
“Mrs. Whitmore, please listen.”
Celeste opened the clasp and turned the clutch upside down.
Lipstick, coins, compact powder, a folded handkerchief, and one sepia portrait struck the Philadelphia hotel’s marble floor. Elena dropped to her knees as laughter and whispers moved through the black-tie guests.
“That picture is all I have left.”
Celeste looked down at her.
“Then perhaps your mother should have left you something more useful than sentiment.”
The cruelty was effortless. Celeste wore diamonds purchased with foundation money while treating a working woman’s last possession like trash.
Henry Whitmore stepped from the crowd, moved aside a coin, and lifted the photograph.
His hand began to shake.
The portrait showed a young woman in a dark 1980s dress.
Henry knelt beside Elena.
“Where did you get this?”
“It belonged to my mother.”
He compared Elena’s face to the woman in the photograph.
Celeste’s confidence vanished.
Henry whispered, “Your mother was—”
Then he turned the portrait over.
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On the back, in his own handwriting, were the words:
“Margaret, forgive me for choosing the family.”
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