Two weeks after the honeymoon, our photographer called. Her name was Lila. She was the daughter of one of Beverly’s best friends. She sounded like she was on the verge of a breakdown.
“I don’t know how this happened,” Lila said. “It was fine when I first checked the files, but now the SD card is corrupted. We tried every recovery software in the office, but the files are gone.”
It was only the beginning of a long, cold war.
“All of them?”
“It looks like every single one of your wedding photos is gone. I’m so sorry, Sylvia. I’ll keep trying, but…”
I slid my back down the kitchen cabinet and sat on the linoleum. I cried until my ribs ached and my throat felt raw.
It felt too convenient.
The daughter of Beverly’s friend lost the photos of the wedding that Beverly tried to ruin? It smelled like a setup, but we had no proof.
Every single one of your wedding photos is gone.”
Then, a week later, the phone rang. It was Beverly.
“Well,” she said, her voice bright and cheery. “Good thing I had Lila send me printed copies before that unfortunate accident.”
“What do you mean, Beverly?”
“Oh, I pulled Lila aside at the wedding and told her to send me a full album as soon as possible. I like to preserve family history. Why don’t you come over on Sunday? We’ll have a little viewing with the family.”It was Beverly.
I was a fool. I actually thought, for a fleeting second, that this was her way of making things right. I thought she’d saved the day.
When we arrived at her house on Sunday, the living room was packed. Family and close friends were all squeezed onto the sofas.
The album sat on the coffee table.
Beverly stood beside it, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
I was a fool.
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