The kitchen felt too quiet after his footsteps faded down the gravel driveway. I wiped the cedar countertop twice, my silver wedding band scraping against the wood, then looked down at his untouched breakfast. The butter had pooled in the center of the cold rye bread, turning thick and yellow.
At noon, I walked down to the corner deli on Main Street to get away from the quiet house. The price of gas on the corner sign had climbed to three dollars and fifty cents again, and the deli charged me four dollars for a simple cup of black tea in a paper cup. I carried the tea and a turkey sandwich in a brown paper bag down the block to Jordan’s downtown design studio.
The autumn wind was kicking up dry maple leaves along the sidewalk, scraping them against the brick foundations of the old shops. I pushed open the heavy oak door of his studio, the overhead bell chiming once in the drafty room.
The high-ceilinged room smelled of cedar shavings and old paper from the vintage drafting tables he had salvaged from the Buick plant. Jordan was not at his desk, but his black leather briefcase sat open on the wood chair, empty of the morning letter.
I set the lunch bag down next to his computer keyboard. Beside his brass paperweight lay a small blue slip of paper with the Oak Ridge Bank logo printed in the corner, marked past due in red ink.
The amount listed on the statement was four thousand eight hundred dollars, and the account name was not Jordan’s architectural firm. Before I could lean closer to read the name on the second line, a shadow fell across the mahogany desktop.
Jordan reached past my shoulder, his flannel sleeve brushing my arm as he slid a large white blueprint of a lakefront cottage over the blue slip until it was completely covered.
