Jordan did not look up when I set the plate of scrambled eggs and rye toast in front of him. His left hand was already folding the stiff sheet of paper back into its long window envelope, the green certified mail sticker catching the cold morning light through the kitchen window. The paper made a dry, scraping sound against the oak table as he smoothed the crease with his thumb.
He slipped the envelope into his black leather briefcase on the floor before I could read the return address. In his shirt pocket, the silver drafting scale he carried everywhere clicked against his metal pen. I watched his fingers settle on the brass clasp of the briefcase, snapping it shut with a double click that echoed in the quiet room.
“Is that from Oak Ridge Bank?” I asked, setting the copper kettle down on the cold burner.
“Just some paperwork for the library expansion,” Jordan said.
His voice was slow and perfectly level, the way he spoke when he was calculating the load-bearing capacity of a timber frame. He did not touch his fork, nor did he look at the butter melting on his toast.
“The library is a city project,” I said, my thumb nervously sliding over my silver wedding band, adjusting it against my knuckle. “They don’t usually send certified mail for municipal bids. And that envelope had the bank’s commercial division logo in the corner.”
Jordan slid his chair back and stood up, reaching for his briefcase. “There are always extra steps with municipal bonds, Claire. The lawyers require registered signatures at every stage of the design phase. I need to be at the studio early to review the structural drawings with the engineer.”
“Is there a problem with the contract?” I asked, watching him lift the briefcase.
“No,” Jordan said, his hand lingering on the leather handle of his case. “The contract is exactly where it needs to be.”
He kissed my cheek, his jaw tight and cool against my skin, and left through the side door.
