Chapter 3 - The Summons to Concord
The week before the wedding, my firm was finalizing the pitch for a forty-million-dollar waterfront development project in Wilmington. My presence at the Friday partner meeting was essential; my CEO, David Vance, had explicitly told me that closing this account would solidify my transition to Senior Vice President.
On Thursday afternoon, I walked into David’s corner office.
"David, I have a family emergency this weekend," I said calmly. "I need to withdraw as the lead presenter for the Wilmington account. Marcus is fully prepped to take over the deck."
David looked up from his dual monitors, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Marissa? Are you out of your mind? This is the partnership track. If you step back now, Marcus gets the credit."
"I am aware," I replied.
"Is someone in the hospital?" he asked, genuine concern softening his stern face.
"No," I said, my voice steady, ice-cold beneath the surface. "Someone is getting married. And there is a ten-year-old account that requires my personal audit. If I don't settle it now, it will poison the rest of my life."
David stared at me for a long beat. He had known me for seven years; he knew I was not a woman prone to melodramatic outbursts or irrational choices.
"Take the weekend," David said quietly. "Just make sure whatever fire you're putting out doesn't burn you down with it."
"The fire isn't for me, David," I said. "I’m just the one carrying the matches."
When I returned home that evening, the tension in the house was already vibrating at an unbearable frequency. Richard had laid out three different suits across our bed, complaining loudly that the dry cleaner hadn't properly pressed the lapels of his tuxedo.
Downstairs in the kitchen, nine-year-old Matthew was kneeling on the floor, holding a small, ventilated plastic terrarium—the kind sold at pet supply stores for transporting small reptiles. Inside, resting calmly on a bed of damp sphagnum moss, was a large, mottled-brown American toad.
Richard descended the stairs, taking in the sight of our son and the plastic box, and his face instantly turned purple.
"What is that?" Richard barked, pointing a furious finger at the plastic tub. "Matthew, what is that disgusting creature?"
Matthew flinched, pulling the box closer to his chest. "It’s Barnaby, Dad. I found him near the pool drain. His front foot was pinched, so I put some antibiotic ointment on it. He has to stay damp or his skin dries out."
"You are not bringing a slimy toad to an elite weekend in Concord!" Richard roared, lunging forward to snatch the container. "Throw it into the bushes! Now!"
"Leave him alone, Richard," I commanded. My voice wasn't loud, but the steel in it caused Richard’s hand to freeze mid-air.
"Marissa, are you insane?" Richard hissed, turning his venom on me. "We are going to be staying at Uncle Greg’s mansion with the Montgomerys! Julian Montgomery’s grandfather was a state senator! You think they want a weird kid carrying a swamp toad into their parlor?"
"Matthew is bringing his pet," I said, my gaze drilling into Richard’s eyes until he looked away. "The box is sealed, it is clean, and it will stay in our guest room. Matthew is responsible for him. If you yell at our son again, Richard, you can explain to your mother why we aren't coming at all."
Richard’s jaw worked silently. He hated being challenged, but the fear of Beverly’s wrath if we failed to present a unified, happy family front to the wealthy Montgomerys outweighed his disgust.
"Fine," Richard spat, smoothing his tie down violently. "Keep it in the trunk of the car. If that thing gets out in the house, Matthew, I swear I’m flushing it."
Matthew looked up at me, his brown eyes wide with anxiety. I knelt down beside him, smoothing his hair behind his ears, and looked at the toad inside the clear plastic box. The creature sat completely still, its golden-ringed eyes blinking with prehistoric calm, unbothered by the screaming man in the expensive suit.
"He's safe, Matthew," I whispered gently. "You take good care of him. Sometimes the quietest creatures have the toughest skin."
Matthew nodded solemnly, clutching the clear box to his chest like an amulet.
The drive from Charlotte to Concord took less than an hour, but the silence inside the SUV was thick enough to choke on. Richard spent the entire trip on hands-free calls with his broker, bragging about the Montgomery family’s portfolio to anyone who would listen, desperate to project the illusion that he was marrying into their wealth by proxy.
We pulled through the wrought-iron gates of Uncle Greg’s private estate around four in the afternoon. The property was an ostentatious display of new money: Greek revival columns that were slightly too wide for the portico, artificial fountains spitting water into manicured ponds, and a fleet of luxury European sedans parked along the circular cobblestone driveway.
As soon as we stepped out of the car, the front oak doors swung open.
There stood Chloe.
She was twenty-two now, tall, slender, and radiating the careless, radiant arrogance of someone who had never faced a single consequence in her entire life. She was wearing an ivory silk dressing robe with the initials *C.E.M.*—already adopting her fiancé's name—embroidered in gold across her breast pocket.
"Richard!" Chloe squealed, rushing down the limestone steps and throwing her arms around my husband’s neck. "You made it! Oh my gosh, Julian’s family brought three cases of vintage champagne from France! You have to come taste it!"
"Look at you, bride-to-be!" Richard beamed, his eyes glowing with sycophantic adoration. "You look like a movie star, Chlo."
Chloe pulled back, her eyes finally landing on me and Matthew. Her smile shifted instantly, curdling into that familiar, condescending smirk I had seen across dining tables for ten straight years.
"Oh, Marissa," Chloe purred, her eyes scanning my simple tailored linen trousers and blouse. "You’re here too. And... what is that?"
She looked down at the plastic box Matthew was holding.
"It's my toad," Matthew said quietly. "His name is Barnaby."
Chloe let out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed across the stone courtyard. "A toad? God, Richard, your kid is such a little weirdo! Bring him inside, I have to show him something."
"Chloe, he’s tired from the drive," I said, stepping between her and my son.
"Oh, relax, Auntie Marissa," Chloe sneered, reaching out and grabbing Matthew’s wrist to pull him toward the wide terrace where several young bridesmaids were lounging with glasses of rosé. "Come here, little man. I’m going to show you something hilarious. You want to see what your mom looked like when she married your dad?"
My pulse didn't jump. It slowed. A calm, terrifying stillness settled into the marrow of my bones.
On the patio table sat Chloe’s iPad, connected to a portable Bluetooth speaker. Chloe picked it up, swiped her finger across the glass, and tapped a video file that was sitting in her favorites folder.
The screen flickered. The speakers blared the opening strains of *Canon in D*, followed instantly by the violent *thwump* of the confetti cannons, the wet splatter of rotten eggs, and the horrifying image of twenty-four-year-old me covered in yellow bile, weeping as I clutched my ruined lace gown.
The bridesmaids burst into laughter.
"Look at her face!" Chloe shrieked, shoving the screen inches from Matthew’s nine-year-old face. "Look at her crying! She looked like a drowned chicken! We called her the Omelet Queen for three straight years!"
Matthew didn't laugh.
He looked at the screen, watching his mother being humiliated in front of two hundred people. His small face went completely pale. His jaw tightened, his little chest rising and falling rapidly.
Slowly, Matthew pulled his wrist out of Chloe’s grip. He turned around, walked over to where I was standing, and wrapped his free arm tightly around my waist, his face pressed into my hip.
Then, he looked up at me, his eyes brimming with confused, heartbroken tears, and asked the question that sealed the fate of the Sanders family forever:
"Mom... why was everybody laughing when you were hurting?"
The patio went quiet for a brief second. Richard, who was standing right beside Chloe holding a glass of wine someone had handed him, looked down at Matthew.
Richard didn't scold Chloe. He didn't tell her to turn the video off.
Instead, Richard let out a faint, dismissive chuckle, shaking his head. "Matthew, it was ten years ago. It was just a joke. Don't be so dramatic like your mother."
Chloe smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Yeah, Matthew. Don't be a baby. And you better get ready, because tomorrow at the reception, right before we cut the cake, I'm playing that video on the giant forty-foot screen for Julian’s family! Everybody deserves a good laugh!"
I looked down at Matthew. I bent down, wiped a stray tear from his cheek, and kissed his forehead.
"Take Barnaby up to our room, sweetie," I said, my voice as calm and gentle as a summer morning. "Mom has some business to take care of."
Matthew nodded, turned on his heel, and walked into the house with his plastic terrarium.
I straightened up and looked at Chloe Sanders. I looked at her porcelain skin, her silk robe, her expensive veneers, and the utter, hollow cruelty rotting inside her chest.
"You're going to play that video tomorrow, Chloe?" I asked, my voice polite, almost curious.
"Every single second of it," Chloe laughed, turning her back on me to refill her champagne glass. "It's tradition!"
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"Good," I whispered to the empty air between us. "Tradition is very important."
***
