Chapter 23: The Key

We didn't talk in the truck.

At every red light he looked at me, and at every red light I looked back.

In the apartment I locked the new deadbolt and leaned on the door.

He stood in the middle of the living room with his bow tie hanging undone around his collar.

I opened my clutch and took out the brass key.

It had lived in my pocket, my handbag and my fist for two weeks.

I had never once put it down without knowing where it was.

I crossed the floor and set it in his palm.

He looked at it.

"Cecelia."

"You keep it."

"I'm not the house manager anymore."

"I know that. I'm not giving you the house, or the office, or a job."

I folded his fingers over the brass.

"I'm giving you the key. In a boardroom it's the only thing that makes me one of them.

"I want it where I live."

His throat moved.

"I'll sign when I choose," I said. "I'll sign for the office with my own pen.

"But if I ever want out, I'll have to come home and ask you for it."

"And if you ask?"

"Then you hand it over, and I walk, and I can say I always had a choice."

He put the key on the side table, very carefully.

Then he turned back to me.

"The thirty days end on Monday," he said.

"I know."

"Your terms say I go when you tell me to."

"I'm not telling you."

"Say it plainly."

"Stay," I said. "Stay, Rafe. Don't go on Monday, or any Monday."

He took my face in both hands and kissed me.

It was slow, and it did not stay slow.

He walked me back against the bedroom door and closed it with my shoulders.

I found the knot of his tie and pulled it loose.

"No touching," he said against my lips, and raised both hands off me, grinning.

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