“She had to finish the weekly procurement reports,” he said, his thumb flicking across the screen. “We are expanding the lounge menu next month.”
“We cannot afford a menu expansion,” I said.
“That is my decision,” he said, his voice rising as he finally looked up at me. “I run the restaurant, Claire. You just sign the tax returns.”
“The company accounts are thin, Evan,” I said.
“They are exactly where they need to be,” he said, tapping his phone against the mahogany table. “You worry about this house, and let me worry about the business.”
I looked at the silver charm bracelet resting on the sideboard, its polished surface reflecting the warm light of the chandelier.
“The bank called about the vendor payments,” I said quietly.
Evan froze, his hand hovering over his phone. For a second, the loud, booming confidence vanished from his eyes, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness.
“Which vendor?” he asked.
“North Harbor Design,” I said.
He stood up so quickly his heavy dining chair scraped loudly against the oak floorboards. He walked over to the console, picked up the bottle of Burgundy, and poured himself a full glass.
“I approved those invoices,” he said, his back to me. “They are handled.”
“Four thousand dollars for a corporate bank audit seems high,” I said.
“It is standard,” he said, taking a long drink of the wine. “You do not understand how these things work anymore.”
I looked at my watch. It was twelve minutes past seven.
“Perhaps we should begin dining,” I said. “Before the chicken gets dry.”
“We wait for Vanessa,” he said.
He walked over to the window that looked out onto the quiet, tree-lined Boston street. He pulled back the heavy blue curtain and peered down at the sidewalk.
A car door closed outside, the sound muffled by the thick brick walls of the townhouse.
“She is here,” Evan said, a small, triumphant smile appearing on his face.
