“And change the dinner for one.”
There was a pause.
Then the concierge said:
“Certainly.”
I changed my mind.
“Actually, make it two.”
“Will Mr. Mercer be joining you?”
“No.”
At seven, Vivian arrived.
She wore white linen and carried a tiny gift bag.
“I brought you something.”
“What?”
She handed it over.
Inside was a small compass.
Brass.
Old-fashioned.
I looked at her.
“My husband used to give these to people who got lost sailing.”
“I’m not sailing.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“But lost is lost.”
Dinner with Vivian was the first genuinely enjoyable evening of the trip.
We talked about marriages.
Not mine at first.
Hers.
She had been married thirty-eight years.
Not perfectly.
She told me about one year when she and Howard barely spoke.
Another when he nearly moved out.
They stayed together because both eventually wanted to.
That distinction mattered.
“People romanticize longevity,” Vivian said.
“They think staying means succeeding.”
She took a sip of wine.
“Sometimes leaving is the first honest thing two people do.”
Across the terrace, I saw Grant.
He stood near the entrance.
Simone was beside him.
They had clearly come to the restaurant.
Then Grant saw me laughing with Vivian.
His expression changed.
He walked toward the table.
Simone followed.
“Eleanor.”
I looked up.
“Grant.”
He stared at the table.
“This was our dinner.”
“It was.”
Vivian glanced between us.
I introduced her.
“Grant, this is Vivian.”
Vivian smiled pleasantly.
“Happy anniversary.”
Grant did not appreciate the humor.
Simone looked at the private setup.
Flowers.
Candles.
Ocean.
Cake.
Something in her expression shifted.
Perhaps she was realizing how much of the trip had been built around a marriage she had expected to replace.
Grant lowered his voice.
“Can I speak to you?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Eleanor.”
“I’m having dinner.”
Simone touched his arm.
“Let’s go.”
He pulled away slightly.
“No.”
That tiny movement caught my attention.
So did hers.
Grant looked at me.
“I want five minutes.”
Vivian leaned toward me.
“Want me to throw him in the ocean?”
I laughed.
Grant did not.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“But I think you no longer get to decide when I stop what I’m doing to accommodate you.”
His face hardened.
“Fine.”
Then he walked away.
Simone followed.
But she did not take his arm this time.
The next day, the atmosphere changed.
Grant did not call.
Did not text.
Simone disappeared.
For the first time since the airport, I had hours of silence.
I spent the morning at the spa.
The afternoon reading by the water.
At four, the resort manager called.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“We need to discuss an attempted charge.”
I sat upright.
“What charge?”
“Mr. Mercer attempted to bill a private excursion to your villa.”
My jaw tightened.
“What excursion?”
“Chartered fishing boat.”
Of course.
“Did you approve it?”
“No.”
“Then decline it.”
“We already did.”
“Thank you.”
The manager hesitated.
“There’s another matter.”
I waited.
“Mr. Mercer has repeatedly represented himself to staff as a co-owner of the reservation.”
“I understand.”
“He also stated that the payment card belongs to a joint account.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Would you like us to note that no charges may be authorized without your signature?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve done that.”
I thanked him.
Then I called Grant.
For once, he answered immediately.
“You tried to charge a fishing charter to my villa?”
“It was already part of the trip.”
“No.”
“We talked about fishing.”
“You mentioned fishing six months ago. I never booked it.”
“I assumed it was included.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because you plan everything.”
There it was again.
The skill he had resented yesterday was apparently convenient today.
“Who was going fishing?”
Silence.
“Grant?”
“Simone and me.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
“You were trying to charge a date with your mistress to your wife’s anniversary reservation.”
“Stop using that word.”
“No.”
He lowered his voice.
“This is exactly the kind of behavior I’m talking about.”
“What behavior?”
“You weaponize money.”
I stared at the phone.
“I declined to pay for your fishing trip.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“It literally is.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
I stood and walked toward the terrace.
“Explain it.”
“You want me to feel powerless.”
The accusation was so revealing that I went quiet.
Grant mistook silence for agreement.
“You’ve always done this.”
“Done what?”
“Controlled the logistics.”
“Because you asked me to.”
“You enjoyed it.”
“That doesn’t make you a victim.”
He was silent.
Then:
