Chapter 10: March the Ninth

Laurel's POV

The founding chairman lowered himself into the empty chair at the foot of the table.

Nobody spoke until he had hooked his cane over the armrest.

He was eighty-one. He had hired Alastair, and he had hired me.

"Don't stand on ceremony," he said. "I'm told I'm the ninth slip. Give me a minute to read the room."

He looked at Alastair's six, and at the three I had.

Then he looked at me, standing alone at the head of the table with my hands folded.

"Dr. Falkland. I read the leave request in the car."

"Yes, sir."

"It says you're exhausted, you're unwell and you've withdrawn from your marriage."

He raised one white eyebrow.

"I've been married fifty-two years. I know the look of a withdrawn wife. It does not usually end with a ring on a podium."

Someone near the middle coughed.

"I'll ask you one thing," he said. "Tell me when you stopped expecting anything from him. Not when it ended. When you stopped hoping."

I looked down the long table at my husband.

He sat with his hands loosely clasped and his face open and concerned.

I had a true answer. I had had it for seven months.

I opened my mouth, and Alastair said, "March."

The chairman turned.

"If I may, sir," said Alastair.

He stood and buttoned his jacket. He spoke so softly that the board leaned toward him.

"I don't like doing this. I wanted her to have the dignity of a quiet leave."

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