The brass latch of the front door clicked shut against the October wind, but the cold draft from the Atlantic still found its way under the heavy oak sill of the foyer.
I set our smallest leather suitcase on the limestone floor and reached down to unbutton Hazel’s coat, the damp wool smelling faintly of the sea.
Our five-year-old daughter was quiet, her small face pale from the two-hour drive back from the orchards in Massachusetts.
Sterling had spent the entire weekend pacing the gravel paths of the farm, his phone pressed to his ear while Hazel and I collected red maple leaves in a paper bag.
“Hold my hand, Daddy,” Hazel said, her voice small against the high plaster ceiling of the entryway.
Sterling did not look down from his gold wristwatch as he stepped past her toward the stairs, his dark overcoat brushing against her shoulder.
“Your mother has you, Hazel,” he said, his voice clipped and quick, already vibrating with the nervous energy of the office.
“I have a conference call with the London representatives in ten minutes,” he added, his hand already on the banister.
I watched his polished black leather shoes click up the first three carpeted steps before I reached down to twist the thin red silk cord bracelet on my left wrist.
It was a simple piece of thread I had worn since my college days, a quiet habit that kept me anchored when the air in this Newport house grew too thin.
He had not looked at either of us since we crossed the Pell Bridge back into Rhode Island, his fingers tight and white on the steering wheel of the sedan.
“We had a lovely weekend, Sterling,” I said, keeping my tone soft and even as I patted Hazel’s dark curls. “The orchards were quiet.”
“It was a necessary weekend,” Sterling said, pausing on the landing without turning around to face us. “There is a difference.”
“The client in Boston needed to see that we have a stable family presence here,” he added, his hand tapping the banister. “It is part of the package.”
