Sylvia Hartley
When my daughter got married, I kept silent about the $33 million I had inherited from my late husband. A few days later, my son-in-law came calling.
The morning of the wedding began with cautious optimism. I chose my outfit with the precision of a chess master — a modest gray dress that whispered “harmless widow,” finished with my grandmother’s pearls to lend dignity without appearing pitiable. I had my hair done at Martha’s salon. Nothing dramatic, just the right look for my daughter’s wedding.
“Mom, you look acceptable,” Emma said when I arrived, already swept up in a minor crisis the wedding coordinator was enduring.
I watched my daughter glide in my great-grandmother’s lace — the only truly beautiful heirloom our family had managed to keep. She looked radiant, the sort of bride whose happiness made everyone else forget their own problems for a little while. But as the guests arrived, social lines sharpened into crystal clarity. Marcus’s parents arrived like a royal visit. His mother, Patricia, dripped in diamonds so abundant they might have blinded low-flying planes. She moved through the room with surgical precision, touching important people on the arm, while somehow looking right through me as if I were a piece of furniture.
I was seated behind an elaborate floral arrangement described politely as a “decorative element.” Hidden among enough flowers to supply a funeral home, I had a spectacular view of precisely nothing but hibiscus and baby’s breath. From my floral exile I could watch the celebration unfold in the large mirror opposite—there I was: Sylvia Hartley, seventy-two years of gathered wisdom folded away like last week’s newspaper.
The ceremony was beautiful. I’ll admit it. Emma floated down the aisle like a storybook heroine, and Marcus looked handsome in his expensive suit. At the cocktail hour I began to notice something about my new son-in-law: his smile changed depending on his prey. A megawatt charm for the obviously wealthy, practiced politeness for the useful, and a cold indifference for anyone who looked like they might need help instead of offering it.
Marcus came over, armed with that dazzling, manipulative smile. “Isn’t this magical?” he asked, gesturing at the party as if he’d personally arranged the sunset. “You must be bursting with pride.”
“Oh, I’m positively vibrating with maternal joy,” I replied, sweeter than an artificial sweetener. “Although I must say the view from here is very instructive.”
Either he didn’t catch the sourness in my tone or he ignored it like a practiced politician. “I was hoping we could spend some time together soon. Really get to know one another.”
“How refreshing. Most people get to know a family before joining it; I admire your commitment to doing things backwards.”
His smile faltered just a touch — a tiny spark I snapped up like a hawk spotting prey. “I was thinking dinner this week. Just the two of us. I have some interesting ideas about family collaboration.”
“Family collaboration. How delightfully ominous. Well, I do love a mysterious dinner. Thursday work in your busy schedule?”
“Perfect. I know a place downtown — very intimate. Perfect for serious conversations.”
I let the questions roll around in my head: Serious conversations about what? My stamp collection? My weekly bridge scandals? I fanned myself theatrically. When he drifted away to charm more promising prospects, I caught my reflection in the mirror again: a silver-haired woman in modest clothes, sitting alone behind a fortress of flowers. I had cultivated that image for two years.
During the father-daughter dance I slipped away to powder my nose in the marble ladies’ room. I practiced my “harmless widow” face in the mirror and returned to my floral fortress to find Marcus entertaining an older couple — the Hendersons from my late husband Robert’s firm — who lapped up his attention like wedding cake.
“Mrs. Hartley,” he said when I sat down, “I really can’t wait for Thursday.”
“Me neither, darling. Me neither.”
As Emma tossed the bouquet and the evening wound down, I watched Marcus work the room with the precision of an experienced con man. There were crafty plans moving behind that handsome face. I’d spent seventy-two years learning that the most dangerous opponents are often the ones everyone underestimates. I intended to become very, very dangerous.
