She did not wait for me to reply. She walked out of the laundry room, her sensible leather shoes clicking on the tile floor until she reached the main hallway.
The gravel crunched outside just after eight. I walked down the stone steps of the front porch, the damp autumn wind cutting through my thin cardigan.
Joe was lifting three heavy cardboard boxes from the trunk of his sedan. They were filled with silver-trimmed candle holders and embossed menus for the country club ballroom.
“We need these in the foyer,” Joe said, not looking up as I approached. “The committee wants the centerpieces assembled by Thursday morning. Every detail has to align with the legacy brand.”
“I can help carry them,” I said, reaching for the smallest box.
He hoisted the largest box, his shoulders tensing under his dark wool coat. He looked tired, the lines around his mouth deep and hard, his posture defensive.
“I took care of the billing for the ballroom rental,” I said, stepping closer to him in the dim light of the driveway carriage lamps. “But I noticed a series of transfers from our personal account last week. Two separate amounts of six thousand dollars, sent to a branch in Greenwich. What were those for, Joe?”
Joe stopped, the heavy box resting against his chest. He let out a short, dry laugh that had no warmth in it.
“We are restructuring some of our liquid assets before the fiscal quarter ends,” he said, his voice rising in that defensive, booming tone he used during difficult board meetings. “You managed the press releases, Bella, not the corporate ledgers. Let me handle the banking. We are consolidating our positions to ensure maximum efficiency.”
“I am not questioning your corporate strategy, Joe,” I said, keeping my pitch perfectly even. “I am asking why twelve thousand dollars was moved from our household checking account into a private savings ledger in Greenwich. That has nothing to do with Vance Global.”
