Chương 10
“How did you get in here?”
“Monica.”
“Of course.”
Lily stood in the doorway holding two apples.
“You watch us from the window.”
“I own the stable.”
“That doesn’t answer what I said.”
Adrian leaned back.
“What do you want?”
“Blackthorn likes the small paddock better.”
“He can’t stay there all winter.”
“It’s August.”
“I know what month it is.”
“You sound like you don’t.”
Adrian stared at her.
Claire had taught this child too much.
Lily put one apple on his desk.
“That one is for you.”
“I don’t want an apple.”
“It’s free.”
“I can afford fruit.”
“That isn’t what free means.”
Adrian picked up the apple.
Lily smiled.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She left.
He ate it.
At the end of August, Claire sent him an email.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Three lines.
June says you stopped looking for me.
Please keep doing that.
I am alive. I am getting treatment. I am not ready to talk.
Adrian read it at six fourteen in the morning.
At six sixteen he had already typed a response.
Where are you? What treatment? Who is your physician? I can arrange anything you need.
He deleted it.
He tried again.
I understand.
That was a lie.
He deleted that too.
For twenty minutes he stared at the blank message.
Finally he wrote:
Thank you for telling me you’re alive. I’m glad you’re getting care. I won’t ask where you are.
Blackthorn is retired from public events. We found the reason he’s been difficult. His neck hurts. We should have listened sooner.
I’m sorry that sentence applies to more than the horse.
He stopped there.
Then added:
You do not need to answer.
Adrian
He sent it before he could improve it into something worse.
Claire did not respond.
September arrived.
The gala story faded from public attention.
The foundation recovered.
Donors who had threatened to withdraw discovered they cared more about tax planning than family scandal.
Adrian found that reassuring in a depressing way.
Victoria remained in the guest room.
One evening she carried a cardboard box into the library.
“What’s that?”
“My things.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
Adrian stood.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
She placed an envelope on the desk.
“I found an apartment.”
He looked at it.
“You bought one?”
“I rented one.”
“Why?”
Victoria laughed softly.
“Because people do.”
Adrian looked at the box.
“You don’t have to go.”
“I think I do.”
“Because of Claire?”
“Partly.”
“Because I said I hate you?”
“That was actually one of our clearer conversations.”
Adrian sat.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“I could ask you to stay.”
“You could.”
“Would you?”
Victoria thought about it.
“No.”
He nodded.
The answer hurt.
He let it remain an answer.
She sat across from him.
“I loved being Mrs. Adrian Cole more than I admitted.”
He almost smiled.
“People usually say they hated it.”
“I liked the restaurants.”
“Finally, some gratitude.”
Victoria laughed.
Then her eyes filled.
She looked away before the tears fell.
“I liked knowing doors opened.”
Adrian stayed quiet.
“And I liked being the reasonable person in the marriage because you made it easy.”
“That sounds generous.”
“It isn’t.”
She wiped beneath one eye.
“If you were controlling, I got to be patient. If you were arrogant, I got to be graceful. I never had to look very closely at the ways I was cowardly.”
Adrian picked at the edge of the envelope.
“What happens now?”
“I move out.”
“And us?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
Victoria looked at him.
“You’re getting better at that.”
“At what?”
“Not turning uncertainty into a project.”
“I hate uncertainty.”
“I know.”
She stood.
Adrian walked her to the door.
There was no dramatic goodbye.
They had been married nine years. There were accountants, memberships, furniture, two vehicles in both names, a house in Colorado neither had visited in eighteen months, and a dog technically belonging to Victoria who preferred Adrian.
Real separation required spreadsheets.
Victoria paused beside her car.
“Keep the dog.”
“I don’t want the dog.”
“He wants you.”
“That seems like his mistake.”
“He’s made several.”
She kissed Adrian’s cheek.
He closed his eyes.
Then she left.
Claire wrote again in October.
How bad is Blackthorn’s neck?
Adrian forwarded the veterinary summary after asking the veterinarian to remove clinic-identifying metadata that might reveal where he lived or whether he was trying to manipulate anything.
He wrote nothing else.
Three days later Claire replied.
Thank you.
Then:
Does he still hate bananas?
Adrian stared.
He walked to the stable with a banana.
Blackthorn sniffed it, recoiled, and looked offended.
Adrian took a picture.
He almost sent it.
Then stopped.
Claire had not asked for a picture.
He sent only:
Yes.
Her response came five minutes later.
Good.
That single word carried him through an entire week.
In November, June called.
“She wants to talk to Lily.”
Adrian was in his car.
“Okay.”
“You’re not involved.”
“I understand.”
June paused.
“I thought you should know.”
“Why?”
“Because Lily will probably tell you five minutes later anyway.”
Adrian smiled.
“Probably.”
The call happened on Sunday.
Lily did not tell him five minutes later.
She told him two hours later while brushing Blackthorn.
“Claire has no hair.”
Adrian stopped moving.
Lily continued brushing.
“She showed me.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she say cancer?”
Lily looked at him.
“You said you wouldn’t ask me questions.”
He stepped back.
“You’re right.”
Lily returned to the horse.
After a moment she said, “She said medicine made it fall out.”
Adrian looked toward the paddock.
His mouth was dry.
“Was she in a hospital?”
“No.”
He nodded.
Lily brushed another section.
“She looked funny.”
Adrian almost objected.
Then Lily added, “She said she looks like an egg.”
He laughed despite himself.
“So I said a little.”
“That was kind.”
“She laughed.”
Adrian rubbed Blackthorn’s shoulder.
“Did she look…”
He stopped.
Lily waited.
He shook his head.
May you like
“Never mind.”
“She looked tired.”
