“That’s not my email account,” I said.
Owen heard me. “What email account?”
Taryn read it aloud.
He exhaled sharply. “Brielle showed me a message from that address.”
A guest’s car turned into my drive and stopped behind the trucks. I could see two people inside studying their phones.
I told Owen he needed to come to the house. Before he could answer, my mother’s car pulled up beside the florist van.
She stepped out and looked at the closed gate, the waiting vendors, and me on the porch with Taryn. Her face held surprise for only a second.
Then she straightened her jacket and walked toward us.
Part 3/5: At my gate, Owen compared the records with what Brielle had told him, and my mother revealed she knew more than she had admitted.
My mother didn’t ask why the trucks were waiting. She asked me to open the gate before more people saw.
Her voice was low and urgent, the voice she used when she wanted a family argument kept inside four walls. Beyond her shoulder, two wedding guests were already standing beside their car.
“Taryn, would you give us a minute?” she said.
Taryn closed her laptop but stayed seated. “I need to help the vendors understand the venue situation.”
My mother’s eyes narrowed. “Brielle hired you.”
“And I’m responsible for telling them the truth,” Taryn replied.
I showed my mother the owner consent form on my phone. “Have you seen this?”
She glanced at it. “Your sister told me everything was arranged.”
“That’s a picture of a signature I didn’t make.”
My mother looked toward the road. “Perhaps there’s been some confusion.”
“I’m asking whether you’ve seen it before.”
She took a breath, then said, “I saw a form.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
Last month. Before the wedding website, before the dinner, before the sauce had dried on my blouse.
I tried to keep my voice even. “And you believed I signed it?”
“Brielle said you had.”
“You knew I said no at dinner.”
My mother folded her arms. “By then, she’d already made promises.”
As if promises made about my house could turn into permission simply by becoming inconvenient to break.
A dark sedan stopped at the curb. Owen got out, still wearing the pressed shirt and slacks he must have planned to wear while preparing for his wedding.
He came through the pedestrian gate after I opened it for him. His eyes went to Taryn’s laptop before they went to me.
Taryn showed him the consent form, then the email from the address that resembled mine. He read both without speaking.
“Where is Brielle?” I asked.
“At my parents’ hotel,” he said. “I told her I needed to verify this first.”
My mother stepped closer. “Owen, today is your wedding day.”
He looked up at her. “That’s why I’m here.”
Taryn opened the original email thread and pointed to its date. Owen read it, then checked the message I had sent him after the family dinner.
“Brielle told me Delaney had signed before invitations went out,” he said. “Then she told me the dinner was an argument about where vendors could park.”
My mother closed her eyes briefly. It was a small movement, but Owen saw it too.
“You were there,” he said to her. “You heard Delaney say the house wasn’t available.”
“I hoped she might reconsider,” my mother answered.
Owen stared at her. “After the dinner?”
“She was angry,” my mother said. “People say things when they’re angry.”
I thought of sauce running down my face while my mother watched. My answer had been clear before Brielle threw anything.
Celia called. I put her on speaker and told her who was present.
She said she had reviewed the document and wanted copies of the complete email thread. She advised us to preserve the originals and make clear to every vendor that access to the property was unauthorized.
“I’ll send written notice to the planner and the companies whose details you have,” she said.
Owen asked whether the consent form could be traced to whoever had sent it. Celia said the original email records might help, but she wasn’t going to speculate before reviewing them.
That answer seemed to land with him. He looked down at the PDF again, as if certainty about the document’s existence were painful enough.
The florist approached the porch. Her staff had another event later that day, she explained, and she needed to know whether to unload or leave.
“I’m sorry you were sent here,” I told her. “You can’t unload at this property.”
Taryn walked with her to the van and began calling the other vendors. No one argued with me; they asked practical questions about payment, timing, and where they should go next.
I had no answers about the wedding. The person who had planned it needed to provide those.
More guests arrived while the florist loaded back into traffic. Some stood on the sidewalk looking at invitations on their phones.
Owen called Brielle. He put the call on speaker after telling her who was there.
“Are you at Delaney’s?” she demanded.
“Yes,” he said. “Taryn showed me the owner consent.”
There was a pause. “Then she knows it’s handled.”
“Delaney didn’t sign it.”
Brielle’s voice sharpened. “I told you she was being difficult.”
“Who made the form?”
“You’re asking me that today?”
“Yes.”
She said I had wanted to host family celebrations at the house. She said she knew I would change my mind once the planning became real.
Owen let her finish. “Who signed Delaney’s name?”
“I didn’t force her to sign anything.”
The wording made Taryn glance up from her notes.
I leaned toward the phone. “Brielle, I’ve never seen that form before today.”
For a moment, I heard only breathing. Then Brielle said, “Mom told me you’d come around.”
Owen looked at my mother.
She reached for the phone, but he pulled it away. “Brielle, I’m going to call you back.”
He ended the call.
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