Chapter 16: The Tray

Wesley came in smiling, and then he locked the door behind him and the smile went out.

I had never seen his face without it.

He looked tired and plain, and angrier than I had ever let myself imagine.

"Hello, wife," he said.

He sat on the edge of the bed beside the tray.

The napkin lay over the phone, and the soup steamed beside it.

My whole body went to the napkin, and I made myself look at his face.

"Your father says you'll sign on Monday," he said.

"Yes."

"Good girl."

I let it go by.

"Is it true?" I asked. "That she was offered the same thing?"

"Who?"

"Tilda."

His eyes moved to the door and back.

Then he shrugged, because there was nobody to hear it.

"My father makes everyone an offer," he said. "She spat in his face."

"Why?"

"She said she'd take half the yard in the divorce and give it to her brother."

"Her brother."

"A salvage man. You'd have loved him." He picked up the spoon and turned it over.

"She stood at the stern rail that night and told me to my face. She had the same stubborn little look you had."

My throat closed.

"What did you do?"

"What anyone would do." He set the spoon down. "I asked her to look at the sunset."

I did not say a word.

I kept my hands in my lap and my eyes on his face, and the napkin lay quiet between us.

"I didn't plan it the first time," Wesley said, in a reasonable tone. "That one I only did. The second I planned. Do you understand the difference?"

"No."

"It's practice." He smiled at me, a little sadly. "You were so easy. Do you know that?"

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