The dry-cleaning plastic rattled in the quiet of the study, a sharp, thin sound that always made the room feel colder than it was. Joe did not look up from his leather briefcase as I held out the charcoal wool suit.
The left sleeve of his shirt was rolled up twice, exposing his bare wrist where his sleeve cuff usually sat buttoned. He shoved three blue folders into the brass-clasp case, his movements heavy and efficient.
I touched my gold wedding band, sliding it back and forth against my knuckle. The metal was warm from my skin, but it did not offer any comfort.
“The gala is only three weeks away,” I said, keeping my voice in the quiet, level tone I had used for ten years at Vance Global. “Your mother wants the guest list finalized by tomorrow morning.”
Joe closed the leather lid of the briefcase, the brass buckles snapping shut with two distinct clicks. He finally looked at me, his eyes narrow and tired.
“Eleanor will have to wait,” he said, using the sharp, defensive pitch that had slowly replaced his normal speaking voice over the last six months. “I have a midnight board meeting at the Greenwich office.”
“At midnight, Joe?” I asked.
“I have to keep the business running, Bella, even if it means working until dawn,” he said, grabbing the suit from my hand.
He did not kiss my cheek. He did not ask if Tommy was asleep, or if the contractor had finished fixing the leak in the carriage house.
He walked past me, the smell of his expensive cedarwood cologne lingering in the doorway. A second later, the heavy oak front door of the estate clicked shut.
I stood by the window and watched the red taillights of his sedan disappear down the long, gravel driveway. The autumn wind was starting to pick up, sending a drift of damp oak leaves scratching against the glass.
The central question of my life had changed from how to support my husband’s career to a much simpler, more frightening one. How long had Joe been planning to leave us behind?
