The development would demolish three old blocks.
Residential units above aging storefronts.
A tailor.
A bakery.
A bookstore.
Two dozen apartments.
We had relocation packages.
Legal ones.
Generous ones, I had told myself.
Maya had once asked me what happened to people after our deals closed.
I had said, “They get compensated.”
She had stared at me.
“All of them?”
I had become irritated.
At the time, I thought she was judging my business.
Now I wondered whether she had simply been asking me to look beyond a spreadsheet.
“Send me the tenant files,” I told Victor.
He frowned.
“Why?”
“I want to read them.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“There are eighty-seven.”
“Then send eighty-seven.”
Victor studied me.
“You’re becoming inconvenient.”
“So I’ve been told.”
By the end of February, Noah weighed three pounds, thirteen ounces.
Maya held him for the first time under a nurse’s supervision.
I stood nearby.
She looked terrified.
“You’re shaking,” I said.
“Don’t narrate.”
“Sorry.”
Noah rested against her chest, impossibly small beneath the blanket.
Maya stared down at him.
“Hi.”
Her voice broke.
She kissed the top of his cap.
I turned away.
Not because I was embarrassed.
Because some moments should belong first to the person who earned them through waiting.
A few minutes later, Maya looked at me.
“Do you want to hold him?”
Every instinct in me froze.
“Can I?”
“The nurse says yes.”
I sat.
They placed Noah against my chest.
Nothing in my life had ever required me to be so still.
He weighed less than a legal binder.
Yet holding him felt like holding every decision I had ever made and every one still ahead of me.
Maya watched.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’ve never seen you cry.”
“That seems statistically unlikely.”
“Not like this.”
I looked down at Noah.
“I missed him.”
“You didn’t know him.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
She seemed to understand anyway.
That evening, Maya and I walked to the parking garage together.
For the first time, neither of us had Lena, a doctor, a nurse, or Noah between us.
At Maya’s car, she stopped.
“I got an email today.”
“From whom?”
“Your HR department.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“They asked whether I would provide a statement about Darla.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to say?”
“The truth.”
I nodded.
She looked at me for several seconds.
“Do you hate her?”
“No.”
That answer surprised Maya.
“It would be easier if I did.”
“Yes.”
“I’m angry.”
“You should be.”
“But she didn’t destroy our marriage.”
Maya’s expression changed.
“No.”
“We did that ourselves.”
“I don’t know if destroy is the word.”
“What word would you use?”
She considered it.
“Abandoned.”
I looked at her.
“We abandoned it?”
“In different ways.”
I thought about that.
“Can abandoned things be repaired?”
Maya’s eyes met mine.
The garage suddenly felt too quiet.
“Sometimes.”
Hope rose before I could stop it.
Then she added, “But they don’t become what they were.”
I swallowed.
“No.”
“And I don’t want what we were.”
The hope changed shape.
Not gone.
Just chastened.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
She opened her car door.
“For now, I want Noah to come home.”
“That’s enough.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“Caleb?”
“Yes?”
“When he does come home, I’m going to need help.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’m not asking you to move in.”
The speed of her clarification almost made me smile.
“I know.”
“I mean feeding schedules, appointments, nights when neither of us knows what we’re doing.”
“I’ll be there.”
She looked at me carefully.
“Even when there isn’t a crisis?”
There it was.
The question behind almost everything.
I answered slowly because she deserved more than instinct.
“Yes.”
Maya nodded.
Then she got into the car.
I stood in the garage long after she drove away.
When I finally reached my own car, there was a message from Victor.
Need decision on Congress Avenue tomorrow. Investors won’t extend again.
I stared at it.
Then at the folder on my passenger seat.
Eighty-seven tenant files.
I had read seventy-three.
The seventy-fourth belonged to Rosa and Martin Alvarez, who had run the same bakery on Congress Avenue for twenty-eight years.
The relocation payment in our proposal looked generous on paper.
It would not cover the lease deposit on a comparable downtown storefront.
For years, I would have called that unfortunate but irrelevant.
Now I could not stop imagining someone saying the same thing about six months of Noah’s life.
Compensated.
Documented.
Technically acceptable.
Still lost.
I sat behind the wheel and opened file seventy-four.
For the first time in my career, I was beginning to understand that a signature could be legally correct and still be the wrong choice.
And for the first time in my marriage—or whatever remained after it—I understood that showing up once during an emergency was not the same thing as becoming someone who stayed.
-END OF PART 2 –PRESS NEX PART IN BOTTOM OF PAGE TO READ NEXT PART
FULL STORY Christmas Eve was supposed to be Nathan Caldwell’s victory lap, the night he invited me into his family’s mansion so I could admire the glamorous life he had built without me. 5009
FULL STORY Christmas Eve was supposed to be Nathan Caldwell’s victory lap, the night he invited me into his family’s mansion so I could admire the glamorous life he had built without me. 5009
PART 3
For several seconds, neither Nathan nor I moved.
Snow brushed the small attic window.
Downstairs, someone began playing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on the piano.
The melody floated faintly through the ceiling, absurdly gentle against the discovery in my hands.
Nathan looked again at Rebecca’s note.
“I need to understand this.”
“So do I.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he caught himself.
“No.”
I frowned.
“No what?”
“I’m doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Turning a personal problem into something I can investigate and solve immediately.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“That is remarkably self-aware.”
“I told you. Apparently divorce was educational.”
He closed the planner.
“We don’t need to call anyone tonight.”
“Good.”
“We don’t need to decide what it means tonight.”
“Even better.”
“And I’m not going to turn Christmas Eve into an audit.”
“That would disappoint your father.”
Nathan laughed softly.
Then his expression became serious.
“Are you okay?”
It was such a simple question.
Years earlier, I might have answered automatically.
Fine.
Now I actually considered it.
“I’m confused.”
“Me too.”
“And a little angry.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“But mostly…”
I looked at the museum letter.
“Mostly I’m realizing how little we asked each other directly.”
Nathan lowered himself onto an old trunk.
“I thought I was being supportive by arranging everything for you.”
“You were.”
“Was I?”
“Sometimes.”
He gave me a look.
“That word is doing a lot of work.”
“It should.”
I sat across from him.
“Rebecca may have overstepped. But she didn’t invent our problems.”
“No.”
“You were traveling constantly.”
“Yes.”
“I was allowing other people to coordinate my life because it was easier than arguing about schedules.”
“Yes.”
“And neither of us checked what the other person had actually said.”
Nathan nodded.
“That sounds embarrassingly accurate.”
There was an important difference between discovering someone had interfered with our communication and pretending that interference had caused the collapse of our marriage.
I did not want the second story.
It was too easy.
If Rebecca had made decisions without permission, she was responsible for those decisions.
But Nathan and I were responsible for the marriage in which those decisions could go unnoticed.
“I want to ask her,” I said.
“So do I.”
“Not tonight.”
“No.”
“Not angrily.”
“I can manage that.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I can attempt that.”
“Better.”
He looked at the folder again.
“Claire, if that promotion had been delayed six months, would you have taken it?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Nathan absorbed that.
“And would you have come to Singapore?”
“For part of the time.”
“We could have made that work.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it hurt more than I expected.
We had ended an entire possibility because both of us had believed the logistics were fixed.
Nathan looked toward the stairs.
“I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“I’m discovering additional categories.”
“That could become a long evening.”
He smiled.
Then I handed him the original letter he had written before our separation.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
He did not take it.
“It was written to you.”
“You never sent it.”
“I’m sending it fourteen months late.”
“You realize the postal service would not be impressed.”
“I’ve disappointed more powerful institutions.”
I folded the pages and slipped them into my purse.
Not because I wanted to preserve a path back to our marriage.
Because it belonged to a version of our history I had never known existed.
That mattered.
When we returned downstairs, no one asked where we had been.
That meant Diane had probably warned everyone not to.
Lily was awake again, resting comfortably in Molly’s arms while Molly’s two daughters sat beside her like tiny security guards.
Serena stood near the windows.
For the first time all evening, she looked less polished.
Nathan went to speak with his father.
I poured myself water.
A moment later, Serena joined me.
“Can we talk?”
I nearly laughed at the irony.
“Apparently Christmas is the night for it.”
She gave a small, embarrassed smile.
“I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
She glanced toward the dining room.
“The question about Lily’s father was rude.”
“It was.”
“I was nervous.”
“That explains it. It doesn’t make it less rude.”
“No.”
Her willingness to accept that surprised me.
Serena looked across the room at Nathan.
“I thought you came here because of him.”
“I came because Molly invited me six times.”
“She’s persistent.”
“She considers boundaries an intellectual challenge.”
Serena smiled.
Then she looked down at her champagne glass.
“Nathan didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“I don’t think he knew.”
“He didn’t.”
Something in her voice made me look at her more closely.
“How long have you two been together?”
She hesitated.
“Eight months.”
That was longer than I expected.
Nathan and I had been divorced fourteen months.
Separated for several months before that.
There was no overlap.
Still, Serena seemed uncomfortable.
“He doesn’t talk about the divorce much,” she said.
“That sounds like Nathan.”
“I knew it wasn’t ugly.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I think that made it harder.”
“How?”
She considered the question.
“Because there isn’t an easy villain.”
That was unexpectedly perceptive.
“No,” I said. “There isn’t.”
She looked toward Lily.
“When I saw you arrive with a baby, I thought maybe he had lied to me about something.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
She paused.
“I also thought perhaps you were trying to make some kind of point.”
I smiled.
“By adopting a child?”
“When you say it that way, I sound ridiculous.”
“You said it, not me.”
She laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“You seem very different from the way he describes you.”
That caught my attention.
“How does he describe me?”
Serena looked alarmed.
“That sounded terrible.”
“A little.”
“He speaks highly of you.”
“That sounds worse.”
“I’m making this impossible.”
“Keep going. It’s entertaining.”
She gave me a reluctant smile.
“He describes you as brilliant and patient and…”
She paused.
“And?”
“Someone he disappointed.”
The answer erased my amusement.
“He said that?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“A few months ago.”
“Why?”
“We were discussing whether I should accept a position in Los Angeles.”
I looked at her.
“What position?”
“My firm offered me West Coast managing partner.”
“That’s significant.”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.”
“I haven’t accepted.”
I already knew what came next before she said it.
“Nathan encouraged you to.”
Serena nodded.
“He told me never to turn down a life-changing opportunity because I was worried about making his schedule inconvenient.”
I looked across the room.
Nathan was helping his niece place an ornament back on the tree.
Something inside me shifted.
Not toward romance.
Toward understanding.
Perhaps remorse had changed him after all.
Serena studied my expression.
“He said something else.”
“What?”
“He said he had once confused being needed with being loved.”
My throat tightened.
“That sounds like something he learned in therapy.”
“He goes every Thursday.”
I stared at her.
“Nathan?”
“Religiously.”
“That may be the most shocking thing I’ve heard tonight.”
Serena laughed.
Then she touched my arm.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
“And for what it’s worth, Lily is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Serena walked away.
I remained beside the drinks table, thinking about the strange cruelty of timing.
Sometimes people learned exactly what you once needed them to learn.
They just learned it after you no longer needed it from them.
The next morning, I woke in the guest room shortly after six.
Lily was making cheerful sounds in the travel crib.
I lifted her out and carried her toward the windows.
The snow had stopped.
Greenwich looked newly washed beneath the pale blue morning.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered.
Lily grabbed my necklace.
“Yes, yes. Materialism begins early.”
There was a soft knock.
Molly entered wearing flannel pajamas and holding two mugs.
“I brought coffee.”
“You may stay.”
She handed one to me.
Then she climbed onto the bed.
“Did you sleep?”
“Some.”
“Did my brother irritate you?”
“Moderately.”
“Good. He seemed thoughtful when he came downstairs.”
“That’s usually dangerous.”
Molly studied me.
“What happened?”
I told her.
Not everything.
But enough.
The unsent letter.
The museum offer.
Rebecca’s note.
Molly sat in stunned silence.
“I remember Rebecca.”
“So do I.”
“She ran Nathan’s entire life.”
“Pretty much.”
“She also hated uncertainty.”
That sounded accurate.
Rebecca had been extraordinarily competent.
She arranged flights, meals, meetings, hotel inspections, doctors’ appointments, birthdays, gifts.
She could make six months of international travel fit onto one spreadsheet.
She also disliked unanswered questions.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
Molly frowned.
“I remember something from Singapore.”
“What?”
“You were supposed to join Nathan later than originally planned.”
“Yes.”
“Rebecca complained about it.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“At Mom’s birthday dinner.”
I remembered missing that dinner because of an exhibition opening.
Molly continued.
“She said your museum schedule was making the travel plans impossible.”
“That sounds like her.”
“But then Nathan said, ‘Claire decides when she joins me.’”
I went still.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I remember because Rebecca looked annoyed.”
A memory surfaced.
Three days later, I had received a revised itinerary showing a departure date almost a month earlier than I expected.
When I questioned it, Rebecca told me Nathan had requested the change because of opening events.
I never asked Nathan.
I simply went.
“Oh,” I whispered.
“What?”
“I think this happened more than once.”
Molly set down her coffee.
“Claire, do you think Rebecca was trying to break you up?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
That story was too dramatic and made too little sense.
“I think Rebecca was trying to make Nathan’s life efficient.”
“And you were an inefficiency?”
The phrasing hurt.
But it fit.
“Maybe.”
Molly looked furious on my behalf.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because Nathan’s company was growing too quickly. Because she was managing chaos. Because every time I changed my schedule, it affected hotels, flights, drivers, meetings.”
“That doesn’t give her the right.”
“No.”
“But you’re defending her.”
“I’m trying to understand her.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Exactly.”
Molly watched Lily chew thoughtfully on the corner of her blanket.
“You’re annoyingly reasonable now.”
“Therapy.”
“Everyone in this family apparently goes to therapy except me.”
“You absolutely should.”
“Rude.”
At breakfast, Nathan entered the kitchen alone.
“Where’s Serena?” Diane asked.
“She went home.”
“On Christmas morning?”
“She wanted to see her sister before lunch.”
Nathan poured coffee.
Then he looked at me.
“I texted Rebecca.”
I lowered my spoon.
“Nathan.”
“I only asked whether we could speak this week.”
“Did she answer?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She said she’s free tomorrow.”
Rebecca had left Caldwell Hospitality two years earlier.
She now ran operations for a nonprofit arts foundation in Connecticut.
The coincidence was almost humorous.
Of course Rebecca would end up managing an organization where everyone probably had beautifully organized calendars.
“Do you want me there?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the questions concern you.”
That was new.
Old Nathan would have gathered facts first and presented conclusions later.
“When?”
“Eleven.”
“I can arrange it.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You have Lily.”
“Yes.”
“So I can come to you.”
Another small change.
“I’m staying at my apartment in Brooklyn.”
“I know where you live.”
“How?”
“Molly.”
From the other end of the table, Molly raised her hand.
“Guilty.”
The following morning, Rebecca arrived at my apartment twelve minutes early.
Some things never changed.
She looked almost exactly as I remembered.
Dark hair in a precise bob.
Navy coat.
Leather portfolio.
The only difference was the uncertainty in her expression.
Nathan came separately.
I had placed Lily in her play seat near the windows.
Rebecca’s face softened when she saw her.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
We sat around my dining table.
No lawyers.
No accusations.
No dramatic evidence laid out like courtroom exhibits.
Just the planner and the museum letter between three people who had once participated in the same complicated life.
Nathan began.
“Do you remember contacting Claire’s museum about her schedule?”
Rebecca looked at the document.
Her face changed.
“Yes.”
I had not expected the answer to come so quickly.
“You remember?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why did you do it?”
Rebecca folded her hands.
“I thought I was helping.”
Nathan leaned back.
“Explain.”
She looked uncomfortable.
“At that point, the Singapore expansion schedule was changing daily. Claire had mentioned she intended to travel with you for most of the opening period.”
“I said I hoped to,” I corrected.
Rebecca nodded.
“That distinction was part of the problem.”
“What does that mean?”
“You and Nathan rarely gave me the same answer.”
I glanced at him.
Rebecca continued.
“Nathan would tell me your career came first and that travel should be arranged around your museum commitments.”
Nathan frowned.
“That sounds correct.”
“Then Claire would call and ask me to move her commitments around Nathan’s schedule.”
I stared at her.
Rebecca looked between us.
“You were both constantly sacrificing for the other without discussing it.”
The apartment went silent.
That was so painfully plausible that I almost laughed.
“Then why tell the museum I would be overseas?” I asked.
“Because you had told me you intended to accept the Singapore itinerary.”
“I told you I was considering it.”
“I misunderstood.”
“And the revised museum offer?”
Her expression tightened.
“I received it while both of you were abroad.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I put it in the household mail folder.”
“I never saw it.”
Rebecca looked genuinely startled.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
She turned toward Nathan.
“I gave that folder to you in London.”
Nathan stared at her.
“What folder?”
“The personal documents. Your insurance renewal, property paperwork, and Claire’s museum letter.”
Nathan’s face went blank.
Then he stood.
He walked to the window.
“I remember.”
I felt my pulse quicken.
“What?”
Nathan turned around.
“I was leaving London early for Madrid. I gave the folder back to Rebecca.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No.”
“You were staying.”
“I flew to New York that night because my father had surgery.”
Nathan stopped.
We all remembered that.
Her father had undergone emergency bypass surgery.
Another assistant took over the European schedule for several days.
“So where did the folder go?” I asked.
Nathan closed his eyes.
“I gave it to Marcus.”
“Marcus?”
Marcus Bell had been Nathan’s chief financial officer then.
One of his closest friends.
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“That makes sense. Marcus covered several administrative matters while I was gone.”
My mind raced.
“Could he have thrown it away?”
“No,” Rebecca said immediately. “Marcus never threw away documents.”
Nathan pulled out his phone.
“I can ask him.”
I raised a hand.
“Wait.”
Nathan stopped.
There it was again.
The old reflex.
Call.
Solve.
Investigate.
I looked at Rebecca.
“You wrote this note.”
I pointed to the planner.
DECLINE LOCAL COMMITMENTS THROUGH NOVEMBER.
“Yes.”
“Did Nathan tell you to decline them?”
“No.”
“Did I?”
She hesitated.
“No.”
“Then why write it?”
Rebecca looked ashamed.
“Because I assumed.”
The word sat heavily between us.
“I had a job built around eliminating uncertainty,” she said. “Nathan’s calendar affected hundreds of people. When something was unclear, I made decisions.”
“At my expense.”
“Sometimes, yes.”
Her honesty disarmed me.
“I’m sorry.”
I studied her.
“Did you dislike me?”
Rebecca looked almost offended.
“No.”
“Did you think my work mattered less?”
She took longer to answer.
“At the time?”
“Yes.”
“Probably.”
Nathan turned.
“Rebecca.”
“She deserves honesty.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Nathan’s decisions involved millions of dollars and hundreds of jobs. Your museum schedule involved exhibitions and lectures. I treated his obligations as fixed and yours as movable.”
“That was not your decision to make,” Nathan said.
“No.”
Rebecca’s voice remained calm.
“But neither of you stopped me.”
The truth of that prevented the conversation from becoming comfortable.
She continued.
“You delegated almost everything to me. Flights, dinners, family commitments, household logistics. Eventually I began making personal judgments as though they were operational ones.”
I folded my arms.
“Why didn’t you send the museum letter directly to me?”
“I should have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because your schedule had become part of Nathan’s schedule.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
There it was.
The sentence that described the last years of my marriage more accurately than any accusation could.
My schedule had become part of Nathan’s schedule.
Rebecca did not create that reality.
She simply operated inside it.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
This time, I believed her.
Nathan sat down.
“Is there anything else we should know?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Yes.”
Nathan and I exchanged a look.
She opened her portfolio.
“I brought something.”
Inside was a copy of an email chain.
Rebecca slid it toward me.
The emails were five years old.
The first came from Nathan.
SUBJECT: Claire’s museum position.
Rebecca—
Under no circumstances should Claire turn this down because of Singapore.
Move whatever needs moving on my end.
If she accepts, I’ll travel alone until her schedule allows her to join.
N.
I looked up.
Nathan was staring at the email as though he had forgotten writing it.
Below was Rebecca’s reply.
Understood.
Then, two days later, another email.
Rebecca to Nathan.
Claire says she has decided not to pursue the role and intends to travel for the opening schedule.
Shall I finalize both itineraries?
Nathan’s response:
Only if that is what she wants.
Please confirm directly.
I looked at Rebecca.
“You confirmed with me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“On the phone.”
I tried to remember.
Then I did.
I had been walking between galleries carrying three folders and eating lunch from a paper cup.
Rebecca had said, “Nathan wants me to confirm that you’re comfortable declining the museum position and joining Singapore.”
I had replied, “He needs me there, so yes.”
But Nathan had never said he needed me there.
I had assumed.
Rebecca had assumed.
Nathan had assumed that my answer meant I wanted to go.
Three intelligent adults had constructed an irreversible decision almost entirely out of assumptions.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Nathan looked devastated.
“I told her to make sure.”
“She did.”
“And you said yes.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“Because I thought you wanted me to.”
“I thought you wanted to.”
“I thought being a good wife meant wanting to.”
Nathan rubbed both hands over his face.
Rebecca quietly stood.
“I think the rest belongs to the two of you.”
Before leaving, she stopped beside me.
“I am sorry, Claire.”
“I know.”
“I should have respected the boundary between helping and deciding.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then she looked toward Nathan.
“And you should have had fewer assistants involved in your marriage.”
For the first time all morning, I laughed.
Nathan did too.
Rebecca smiled faintly.
“I’ve improved.”
“So have we,” I said.
After she left, the apartment became quiet.
Lily had fallen asleep.
Nathan stood by the window.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I spent years believing one story.”
“What story?”
“That you asked me to sacrifice my career.”
“I thought you chose the travel because you wanted to.”
“And neither was completely true.”
“No.”
I sat down.
“But that doesn’t mean our divorce was a mistake.”
Nathan looked at me.
“I know.”
The answer surprised me.
He came back to the table.
“If you had received that delayed offer, maybe we would have done better.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe we would have found a different way to misunderstand each other.”
“Very possible.”
He smiled sadly.
“We were talented.”
“We really were.”
Then his smile disappeared.
“Do you regret marrying me?”
I considered the question.
“No.”
His shoulders lowered slightly.
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Even knowing how it ended?”
“Especially knowing.”
That surprised me.
Nathan explained.
“I built my entire identity around being useful. Successful. Dependable. I didn’t realize how often I made other people adapt to me while telling myself I was doing everything for them.”
He glanced toward Lily.
“Losing our marriage forced me to see that.”
I studied him.
“You have changed.”
“So have you.”
“Yes.”
“Are you happier?”
“Yes.”
It did not hurt him the way I feared.
He nodded.
“Good.”
“And you?”
Nathan looked toward the street below.
“I’m becoming happier.”
“What does Serena have to do with that?”
A shadow crossed his face.
“I don’t know.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“She was offered Los Angeles.”
“I know.”
He looked at me sharply.
“She told me.”
“Of course she did.”
“What does that mean?”
“Women enjoy speaking to one another when you leave rooms.”
“That feels threatening.”
“It should.”
He laughed.
Then I grew serious.
“You want her to go.”
“If she wants the job.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Nathan was silent.
Finally, he said, “Part of me is terrified that if she goes, we’ll end.”
“Have you told her that?”
“No.”
I stared at him.
He sighed.
“I hear it now.”
“Progress.”
“I should tell her.”
“Yes.”
“And I should not tell her what decision to make.”
“Also yes.”
“You could invoice me for this.”
“My rates are high.”
“I believe it.”
He picked up his coat.
At the door, he turned back.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for coming on Christmas Eve.”
“Thank Molly. She conducted a campaign.”
“I’m glad you came anyway.”
“So am I.”
His eyes moved to Lily.
“Would you ever…”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Would you ever let me see her again?”
The question caught me completely off guard.
“Nathan.”
“I know she has nothing to do with me.”
His words came carefully.
“And I’m not trying to create some strange claim. I just…”
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