Chapter 9 - CELESTE’S WEDDING
Celeste Rutherford’s wedding was supposed to be the social event of May.
Three hundred guests.
A historic estate in Westchester.
Six-figure floral budget.
Custom orchestra.
Fashion coverage already negotiated.
Her dress was unfinished.
That made the suspension immediately practical.
Two days after the incident, Celeste’s wedding planner called Bellamy & Rowe eight times.
The salon did not restore the appointment.
On day three, Celeste’s attorney sent a letter threatening litigation.
On day four, she called me.
I almost did not answer.
Then I did.
“Mara Ellison.”
A pause.
“You knew it was me.”
“Yes.”
Her voice was controlled.
“My dress is trapped in your acquisition drama.”
“The company still belongs to Patrick Rowe.”
“You’re the reason they suspended me.”
“No. Your conduct is.”
She exhaled sharply.
“I apologized to the store.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Who received it?”
“Sabine.”
Interesting.
Not me.
Not Naomi.
Not the other customers.
The institution.
“I’m glad the building feels better,” I said.
Celeste went quiet.
“That was unnecessary.”
“So was the coffee.”
Another pause.
“I want my gown released.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
She seemed surprised.
“You do?”
“If you have paid according to contract, the company should not hold your property hostage.”
She softened slightly.
“Then tell Patrick.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
“But the service suspension remains separate.”
Her tone hardened again.
“So I’m supposed to take an unfinished couture gown somewhere else?”
“If another atelier will accept the work.”
“You know they won’t this close.”
I did know it would be difficult.
That made the consequence real.
It also raised a question.
Was refusing service proportionate?
Or was it punishment dressed as policy?
I had no interest in reproducing arbitrary power simply because I now held more of it.
“I’ll review the service terms,” I said.
Celeste laughed coldly.
“Of course. Review. Investigate. You love making people wait.”
I thought of my mother’s old complaint.
Of Naomi.
Of employees told to stay precise.
“Sometimes waiting prevents revenge from pretending to be judgment.”
She did not answer.
Before hanging up, Celeste said:
“You think you’re different because you hide your money.”
“No.”
“Then why the coat?”
I looked at the stain hanging in my apartment, waiting for a textile conservator.
“Because I wanted to know what the room did before it knew my name.”
Celeste was silent.
Then:
“And now you know.”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.”
The bitterness in her voice was understandable.
Not admirable.
But understandable.
I said:
“I don’t feel congratulated.”
For the first time, she had no quick reply.
That evening, I called Patrick.
“Release her gown.”
He agreed.
“What about completion?”
I looked at the employment interviews stacked on my desk.
“Not yet.”
The decision would wait until we understood whether refusing her service protected staff or merely satisfied us.
May you like
I was beginning to understand why power was dangerous even when you believed your cause was just.
It always offers the pleasure of making someone else wait outside the room.
