CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RHETT
Day Thirty
The final campaign reception occurs without Nora.
Her departure was always scheduled after the required events, but Ingrid moved the flight forward. The legal agreement ended yesterday. She owes the foundation no appearance, no smiling photograph, no performance of unity.
Her absence becomes the first thing every reporter notices.
I stand at the community rink beside a projection of her work. The campaign total rises on the screen behind me.
One hundred and twelve percent of goal.
The rink is secure for three years. The tutoring program can expand. Travel grants double.
Nora should be here to announce it.
Instead, Ingrid sends a recorded message from Stockholm. Nora appears on-screen in a hotel room, hair damp from travel, exhaustion visible beneath her eyes.
"This campaign began with the belief that talent should not be priced out of possibility," she says. "Thank you to every family, volunteer, donor, and child who trusted us. I am proud of what we built and excited for what comes next."
She does not mention me.
She should not have to.
When the video ends, I take the microphone.
"The total behind me belongs to Nora's vision and this community's work. I am honored to continue serving under her program leadership while she completes an international project."
A reporter asks, "Does serving under her mean the divorce is off?"
"It means the foundation has a governance structure."
"Did you drive her to the airport?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because she did not ask me to."
The answer disappoints them.
Good.
After the reception, I return to the penthouse for the first time in weeks.
Nora's absence is everywhere, but the apartment no longer feels frozen. She took more equipment, several boxes of clothes, the eucalyptus from the vase, and the blue shoebox of postcards.
I am glad she took it.
I place her photograph of the little goalie on my desk. Then I begin making changes.
Not removing her.
Living.
I wash sheets, throw away expired food, move my training equipment out of her office, and box the sponsor merchandise Damon used to send.
I leave her books where they are. I place her remaining belongings in the guest room with an inventory sent through Maren, so she never has to wonder whether I discarded anything.
At midnight, Nora calls from Stockholm.
Video off. Voice only.
"I landed," she says.
"Your mother informed me twice."
"She called you?"
"She said if I made you cry overseas, she would cross an ocean to kill me."
"That sounds right."
We are quiet.
"How was the reception?" she asks.
I tell her the total. She gasps, then laughs, and for five minutes we talk about tutoring budgets, equipment vendors, and the roof repair.
"How is Stockholm?" I ask.
"Cold. Clean. Everyone is taller than me."
"Most twelve-year-olds are taller than you."
"I called to be kind."
"I apologize. Continue."
She describes the hotel window, the harbor, tomorrow's first shoot.
I listen.
When the call ends, she says, "Good night, Rhett."
"Good morning, Nora."
The time difference is six hours.
Her day is beginning as mine ends.
For now, that is what our relationship is: two lives separated by distance, briefly touching in the dark.