Chapter 6: The Invoice

On Monday at 7:05, I stood on the pier in my work blazer and waved at a ferry.

It was in Alana's binder, in green ink, on page one of the wife schedule: 7:05, Wave to captain.

"Wives wave," Alana had said. "It's a tradition. Knox loves it."

"Does he know that?" I said.

"He will, honey. Go."

So I waved, and the 7:10 pulled away from the pier with a hundred commuters at its rails.

In the wheelhouse, a man in a captain's cap raised one hand.

The license had been recorded at nine that morning. I had a text from Gran that said only: House power on.

I was married, and I owned the house on Tradd Street.

I also had a nine o'clock with a vendor who stocks IV poles.

"Vin."

I turned around.

Preston Ames stood at the end of the pier in his grey morning suit from Saturday.

He had two days of stubble and a ring box in his hand.

Behind him, a crowd of commuters waited for the 7:40 with coffee, watching us.

"I rehearsed this," Preston said. "Can I say it?"

"You can say it for a minute," I said.

"I made the worst mistake of my life."

"On Saturday at 10:07," I said.

"She left me on the church steps. She saw the ring and said she hadn't flown in from Lisbon for a rental."

"That's fair."

"I love you," Preston said. "I want to start over. I'll do it right this time."

He went down on one knee on the wet boards, and a woman in the commuter line said, "Oh, no."

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