The heavy oak doors at the rear of the cathedral groaned open, and a shaft of golden Charleston sunlight poured down the center aisle. Every head turned. Walking toward me in a charcoal suit was my older brother Beckett, the one I had not seen in eleven years, the one everyone said had died overseas after our mother threw him out for defending me. Behind him walked twelve men in matching dark suits, and behind them, an elderly woman in a wheelchair being pushed by a Navy officer. It was Miss Ophelia, the retired schoolteacher who had raised me after my parents lost everything, the woman Preston had called a worthless charity case at our engagement dinner. Beckett stopped three feet from Preston, his jaw tight, his eyes glassy. Big bro, I whispered, and my knees buckled. He caught me before I hit the marble. I finally learned the truth this morning, Junie, he said softly, pressing a folded document into my hand. It was a deed. Miss Ophelia had quietly bought the seaside estate Preston’s family had been bragging about for a decade, and she had signed it over to me at dawn. Beckett turned to Preston and spoke loud enough for every guest to hear. Your mother doesn’t know how to raise you, so I’ll be handling things from now on. Then he revealed the truth: he was the anonymous senior partner who had funded Preston’s firm, and he had just pulled every dollar. Sabrina stood up, gasped, and walked out. Preston’s mother collapsed into her pew. Miss Ophelia reached for my trembling hand and squeezed it three times, our old signal for you are safe now. Beckett lifted me into his arms as the guests began to clap, softly at first, then thunderously. Outside, a horse-drawn carriage waited, filled with the white peonies I had grown, and my brother carried me toward the light, whispering that home was finally ready for me.
