Kevin spent most of Sunday morning trying to convince himself that the cork meant nothing.
I understood.
A cork was a cork.
A thread was a thread.
Neither one proved anything.
But he kept looking at the plastic bag on the kitchen counter.
Finally, he said, “I'm going to ask Mom.”
I looked up from my coffee.
“Ask her what?”
“Whether she recognizes the cork.”
“And if she says no?”
“Then we drop it.”
I nodded.
That seemed reasonable.
Patricia arrived twenty minutes later.
She looked from me to Kevin.
“You said it was important.”
“It might not be.”
She sat down.
Kevin placed the bag on the table.
“This was under the dining table.”
Patricia examined it.
“I don't recognize it.”
“Do you remember what wine you opened the night of the wedding?”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Just answer.”
She sighed.
“Pinot noir.”
“How many bottles?”
“I don't know.”
“Three?”
“Maybe.”
“Four?”
“I don't remember.”
I watched her face.
She looked irritated, not frightened.
That made me feel slightly foolish.
Then I placed the dark thread on the table.
Patricia's eyes moved to it.
“What is that?”
“We found it in the veil.”
She stared at the thread.
“I don't know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“Why would I lie about a piece of thread?”
I didn't answer.
Kevin picked up the bag.
“Mom, the corks you tied to the veil. Where did you get them?”
She rubbed her forehead.
“I saved them.”
“From when?”
“Different dinners.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought they'd make the veil look decorated.”
Kevin stared at her.
“You kept wine corks for months just to decorate Nora's veil?”
Patricia looked uncomfortable.
“I thought it would be funny.”
“You've said that.”
“Because it's true.”
I looked at the cork.
“What winery is this?”
Patricia picked it up.
“It's from the bottle we opened at Christmas.”
I frowned.
“Christmas?”
“Yes.”
The cork had nothing to do with our wedding.
That should have settled it.
But something still felt wrong.
Kevin saw my expression.
“You're not convinced.”
“No.”
Patricia sighed.
“What else do you want me to say?”
“I don't know.”
She stood.
“I have work to do.”
She started toward the door.
Then she stopped.
“Wait.”
She turned back.
“I remembered something.”
Kevin looked at her.
“What?”
“There was a wine bottle at the wedding that wasn't mine.”
My pulse quickened.
“What do you mean?”
“I had brought the bottles for dinner.”
“Then?”
“One of the caterers opened another bottle.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you see which one?”
“No.”
Patricia shook her head.
“It wasn't important.”
Kevin looked at me.
It was important now.
“Why didn't you tell us before?”
“Because I forgot.”
She left.
The door closed.
Kevin stood silently.
“That's strange.”
“Yes.”
He sat down.
“Let's call the caterer.”
We found the company name on an old receipt.
Kevin called.
The manager remembered our wedding.
He remembered the damaged veil.
He remembered the argument afterward.
He also remembered the wine.
“There was an extra bottle,” he said.
Kevin put him on speaker.
“Who opened it?”
“I don't know.”
“Can you check your records?”
“I can try.”
There was a pause.
Then the manager said, “Actually, I remember something.”
“What?”
“One of your guests brought it.”
“Who?”
“I can't say for certain.”
“Why?”
“Because it was brought in with several gift bags.”
Kevin thanked him.
The call ended.
I sat back.
“Gift bags.”
“Yeah.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
We spent the afternoon going through photographs from the reception.
There were hundreds.
Most were useless.
Guests laughing.
People dancing.
The cake.
My mother crying.
Kevin holding my hand.
Patricia standing near the bar.
Then Jade noticed something.
“Stop.”
She pointed at the screen.
I zoomed in.
Patricia was standing beside the gift table.
A woman stood behind her.
I didn't recognize her.
She wore a burgundy dress.
Kevin leaned closer.
“Who is that?”
“I don't know.”
Jade called me.
“What are you looking at?”
I sent her the photograph.
She replied almost immediately.
“That's Patricia's friend, Melissa.”
“Melissa who?”
“Melissa Grant. She came with Patricia.”
I looked at Kevin.
“Do you remember her?”
“No.”
We searched through more pictures.
Melissa appeared in several.
Near the gift table.
Near the bar.
Outside.
And once, in the hallway leading toward the bridal suite.
That photograph made my stomach tighten.
She was holding something.
A small plastic bag.
Kevin stared.
“That's the same kind of bag.”
“Maybe.”
He zoomed in.
The image became grainy.
But the shape was clear.
There was something dark inside.
A cork?
Possibly.
We couldn't tell.
Jade called again.
“What's happening?”
I told her.
She was quiet.
Then she said, “Nora, don't accuse anyone.”
“I know.”
“But find out.”
Kevin agreed.
The next morning, he called Patricia.
“Who is Melissa Grant?”
His mother's silence lasted too long.
“Why?”
“She was at the wedding.”
“Of course she was.”
“Why didn't we know her?”
“She was a friend.”
“What friend?”
“An old friend.”
“Did she help with the veil?”
Patricia didn't answer.
“Mom?”
“No.”
“You're lying.”
“Kevin.”
“I saw the photographs.”
Another pause.
Then Patricia said, “I asked her to help.”
My heart dropped.
“Help with what?” Kevin asked.
“She helped me tie the corks.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The first piece that actually fit.
Patricia hadn't done it alone.
But why?
Kevin's voice hardened.
“Why didn't you tell Nora?”
“I was embarrassed.”
“You've been embarrassed for almost a year?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“I know.”
He ended the call.
I looked at him.
“What did she say?”
“She admitted Melissa helped.”
I sat down.
“Did Melissa bring the corks?”
“I don't know.”
We called her.
She didn't answer.
Kevin left a message.
No response came that day.
Or the next.
Then, on Wednesday morning, an envelope appeared in our mailbox.
There was no return address.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed Patricia and Melissa in the bridal suite.
The original veil lay across the bed.
The corks were scattered beside it.
But that wasn't what made my heart stop.
In the photograph, Melissa was holding a small bottle.
Not wine.
Something else.
The label was partially visible.
Kevin turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Three words.
“I didn't know.”
I stared at them.
“Who wrote this?”
“I don't know.”
The phone rang.
It was Patricia.
Kevin answered.
“Mom?”
Her voice was shaking.
“Did you get the photograph?”
We both froze.
“How do you know about it?”
“Because Melissa sent it to me.”
“Why?”
“She says she wants to tell you everything.”
I looked at Kevin.
“When?”
Patricia swallowed.
“Tonight.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Melissa Finally Agreed to Talk, and What She Revealed About the Wedding Morning Made Patricia’s Version Impossible to Believe
The Veil My Mother Gave Me Was Supposed to Carry One Beautiful Memory Into My Wedding, Until Patricia Turned It Into Something Else
Part 6 of 20
