Chapter 5: Hartford

For four days I carried Eleanor's "Not before" around like a stone in my pocket.

She had said she knew what I understood. She had not said what she meant to do about it.

On Thursday night I texted Mireille: "Yes."

She wrote back a ferry time and a row of numbers for a door code.

Then I went upstairs and watched my husband pack for Hartford.

He had the golf bag open on the bed, and he had put exactly one golf glove in it.

Beside it, folded in thirds, were a navy blazer, two linen shirts and a pair of boat shoes.

"Do they dress up for golf in Hartford?" I asked.

"Client dinners," Preston said. "You know how it is. They love a blazer."

"You hate that blazer."

"It's my lucky blazer."

He smiled at me, easy and bright.

I leaned in the bedroom doorway and let him lie.

I had asked the restaurant for Friday through Monday off, and my chef had said yes without asking why. He had looked at my face and said, "Go."

Nobody else knew where I was going. I liked that.

"Aimée." Preston put down the shirt in his hand. "About Monday."

"Yes?"

"I'll be there. You know that."

"I know."

"Nine o'clock, Brookline. I put it in my phone with three alarms. I'm good for it."

"You said that already."

"I'll say it again."

He crossed the room and put his hands on my shoulders.

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