Page 70 of This Beautiful Lie
“Thank you for sitting with Emma this morning,” Trisha finally said, her tone easy, like the thought had just occurred to her. “She doesn’t cozy up to everyone.”
I nodded, thinking of the freckled little girl and her unapologetic questions. “I didn’t mind. She’s… very sure of herself.”
Trisha laughed softly. “That’s one way to put it.” She shook her head. “She gets it from her father. The talking. The opinions. The inability to sit quietly for more than five minutes.”
I smiled, but something in her voice made me glance her way. “She seems happy.”
“She is.” Trisha answered quickly. “Well, most days anyway,” she added after a pause.
We kept walking, the path narrowing the farther we went. Birds rustled overhead, and the air shifted—cooler, greener, carrying the clean scent of sap and earth.
“She’s a handful, but she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Even though, between her and Thomas, I haven’t had a quiet morning in over four years.”
I laughed.
“I swear, if it’s not her singing at the top of her lungs, it’s him trying to convince me that cereal counts as a food group.”
Trisha laughed, but the sound softened as she glanced at me. “She likes you, you know. And Emma’s picky about people—it usually takes her a while to warm up.”
She nudged my arm lightly. “She’s been talking about you all morning.Aunt Viviennethis.Aunt Viviennethat.”
The word hit before I could brace for it. My steps faltered just slightly, breath catching in my chest, as something warm and unexpected spread through me. I swallowed, steadying myself before I spoke.
“Well,” I said quietly, “the feeling’s mutual.”
“Good,” Trisha said, giving my arm a playful squeeze. “That’ll make things easier when she asks if she can be the flower girl at your wedding.”
I nearly tripped over a rock. “What?”
Trisha laughed, the sound easy and bright. “Relax—I’m kidding.” She glanced at me, her smile lingering. “Mostly.”
She shook her head, still amused. “Emma’s been dreaming about being a flower girl since she found out they existed. I think she saw it in some animated movie once—a little girl in a big dress tossing petals? I mean what’s not to like about that?”
Trisha smiled to herself. “But she’s a McHenry,” she shrugged, “what else would you expect? This family has a way of romanticizing everything. Big moments, big feelings—even for the kids.”
I smiled, unsure what to say, letting the comment hang between us.
Trisha shot me a sideways glance. “Has Dean gone over the family tree with you yet?”
“No,” I shook my head. “He hasn’t.”
The look on her face told me she wasn’t surprised. “Figures.” She rolled her eyes. “To keep things simple—there are the McHenrys and the Westons—Easy enough to tell apart—the McHenrys are pale, with various shades of red hair, and the Westons”—she flashed a wicked grin—“they’re the tall, dark, impossibly gorgeous ones.”
My cheeks heated despite myself.
“We all sort of became united after Charles McHenry—my great-uncle—married Dean’s grandmother. That was after thetrial. He helped her get custody of Dean and Blair after the accident.”
She slowed, stepping carefully over a fallen branch, then glanced back at me—like she was checking how much I already knew.
“I’m not sure how much Dean’s told you about all that.”
I shook my head, my brow knitting despite myself.
A trial.
The word settled uncomfortably in my chest. I would’ve remembered something like that.
“Dean’s parents didn’t have a will,” Trisha continued, her tone gentler now. “Helen—his grandmother—was suddenly a widow, fighting to keep her grandchildren. She hired my uncle because he had a reputation of being good. Fair. Steady.” A small smile curved her mouth. “They ended up spending nearly every day together. Court dates. Meetings. Long afternoons that blurred into evenings.”
