Chapter 4
The Larkin Conservatory smelled of damp earth, old iron and money that had already been promised twice.
By ten on Friday morning, I had slept for two hours and was standing beneath the glass dome while a man I'd met three times told me my gala budget was obscene.
“We could fund four apprentices for what you're spending on flowers,” Nathan Delaney said.
Nate was fifty-three, broad-shouldered and dressed as if someone might ask him to move a tree. Today his rolled sleeves exposed strong forearms, and soil dusted his work boots.
“We're holding a gala in a conservatory. The flowers are mostly yours.”
“Then why do we need another thirty thousand dollars' worth?”
“That includes lighting, suspended frames and the crew who'll install them without puncturing Victorian pipes.
We've spent two hundred and eighty thousand and confirmed more than one point four million in pledges. If I cut the spectacle, I save sixty thousand and risk half a million. Which number would you prefer to explain to your apprentices?”
His mouth moved at one corner. “You could've started with that.”
“You could've read page two.”
Mallory coughed into her hand.
Nate studied me for another second, then nodded. “Fair.”
He didn't soften the word or attach a compliment. I liked him slightly better for it.
We walked the route from the entrance to the glasshouse. I explained how guests would move, where the auction pieces would sit and why the jazz quartet needed a raised platform. Nate questioned half of it. I answered all of it.
In the apprenticeship greenhouse, four young people repotted seedlings. Nate greeted each by name and knew who had an exam, an ill mother or a newly passed driving test. “This is what the gala protects,” he said.
“I know.”
It altered his face more than I expected.
My phone buzzed in my bag. Bennett. I silenced it without reading the message.
Nate's attention dropped to my left hand. I'd removed my wedding ring before leaving the house, then put it in the zippered pocket of my handbag because leaving it on the dresser felt too dramatic.
He looked away before the glance became a question.
At the end of the tour, he handed me the marked-up budget. “I was wrong about the flowers. And the event isn't frivolous. I shouldn't have called it obscene.”
“Apology accepted.”
Outside, I finally checked Bennett's message.
Mallory caught up beside the service entrance. “Are we pretending I didn't hear your husband shouting at reception?”
I hadn't told anyone at work. Rowan Events supported fourteen employees and nearly a hundred freelancers in a busy month. “Bennett and I have separated. Don't give him my schedule, client details or access to anything.”
“I'll tell reception and IT.”
“Thank you.”
“Also, go home before you start correcting the Latin names on the plant labels.”
“I don't know Latin.”
“Exactly.”
Delegating protection felt strange. I let her do it anyway.
Need to collect more clothes tonight. We should talk like adults. I'll be there at seven.
He hadn't asked whether seven suited me.
I typed, Come at six. I have plans at seven.
I didn't.
Not yet.