“Did your mother work in nursing?”
I instinctively covered the little silver leaves with my fingers.
“She did.”
His face softened.
“I thought so.
I’m sorry to interrupt you.”
Before he could say anything else, Nathan appeared at the door.
“Dad, the photographer needs you for the family portraits.”
Silas hesitated.
“Of course.”
He looked back at me.
“I hope we’ll have a chance to speak later.”
Then he followed his son inside.
I remained on the terrace, confused.
Why would the groom’s father care about my mother’s profession?
And why did he seem so shaken by a piece of jewelry?
When I returned to the ballroom, Felicity was giving another speech.
This one was supposedly funny.
She described our childhood, exaggerating harmless disagreements into stories about my awkwardness and her generosity.
“Jenna always wanted to be important,” she said, holding the microphone with practiced ease.
“But some people are born to lead, and others are happier following instructions.”
The laughter was louder this time.
My father nodded as though she’d made an insightful observation.
I sat very still.
Across the room, Silas lowered his champagne glass.
His expression had changed completely.
He leaned toward Nathan and asked him something.
Nathan frowned.
Then Silas stood.
His chair scraped against the marble floor loudly enough to interrupt the speech.
Felicity paused.
“Silas? Did you want to say something?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
He looked straight at me.
“Jenna Bennett,” he said, “were you working in the emergency department at St.
Catherine’s on October seventeenth, three years ago?”
My heart began beating faster.
October seventeenth.
I remembered the date because it had been the anniversary of my mother’s death.
I had volunteered for the overnight shift rather than spend the evening alone at home.
That was also the night a severe thunderstorm moved through Chicago, flooding roads and causing several highway collisions.
“Yes,” I said.
Silas drew in a long breath.
“Then you’re the nurse I’ve been looking for.”
My sister laughed uncertainly.
“Well, what a coincidence.”
Silas turned toward her.
“No, Felicity.
It’s considerably more than a coincidence.”
He reached inside his jacket and removed a weathered cream-colored envelope.
“Three years ago,” he began, “I was brought into St.
Catherine’s after a traffic accident.
I had injuries that initially appeared manageable, but my condition deteriorated.
I was frightened, confused, and apparently doing a poor job of admitting either one.”
Memories flashed through my mind.
The rain hitting the ambulance bay.
The wet blanket covering a patient’s shoulders.
A man with a gray beard making a joke about his ruined jacket.
His voice becoming hoarse.
The swelling near his neck.
The alarming change in his breathing.
I’d raised my concerns immediately, and the trauma physician had come to reassess him.
The medical team recognized that an evolving neck injury was threatening his airway.
The physician and respiratory team intervened quickly, stabilizing him before emergency surgery.
I remembered holding the patient’s hand while equipment was being prepared.
I remembered him asking whether he was going to die.
And I remembered answering honestly.
“We’re doing everything we can to keep you here.
I need you to stay with us.”
Silas looked around the ballroom.
“My doctors told me afterward that the team’s rapid response had prevented a disaster.
They specifically mentioned that an emergency
