Chapter 2 The Pattern
The Pattern
Julian
Monday morning starts with a screen full of emails marked urgent, which means none of them actually are.
I've been at the foundation offices since six, working through the backlog that accumulated while I was handling the Hong Kong permits and the donor cultivation and the thousand other details that come with trying to build something meaningful from scratch.
The sale of Morrow Maritime Tech gave me enough money to never work again, but sitting still has never been my skill.
When my father died, he left me a warning: Stay busy or it'll eat you alive.
I've taken that advice, possibly too literally.
The corner office has a view of the harbor I rarely look at.
Today I'm reviewing grant applications for coastal restoration projects, trying to give each one the attention it deserves despite the fact that my eyes keep drifting to the photo from Saturday's event.
The foundation photographer caught a good one: me with the Hendricks group, everyone laughing at something I don't even remember saying.
Margot's in the frame, her hand on my shoulder, and I make a mental note to send it to her.
She's been struggling since the divorce, and small things matter.
My phone rings. Speak of the devil.
"Julian, thank God." Margot's voice is thick, the way it gets when she's been crying. "Do you have a minute?"
I check the time. 10:47 am. Eliza will be working on something at home or meeting with former colleagues. She's been restless lately, though she hasn't said why. I should ask. I keep meaning to ask.
"What's wrong?"
"Richard sent someone to collect the last of his things. He couldn't even come himself. Six years, and he sends a stranger for his jackets. I know we're divorced, but I thought..." She breaks into sobs.
I lean back in my chair and let her talk.
Margot and I grew up together, our families' yachts moored side by side every summer in the Cape Avalon marina.
Her father helped me find my first customers when I started the company.
Later, when our fathers died within a year of each other, Margot and I took turns being the one who could manage a phone call.
I owe the Hales more than I can repay, and Margot's never let me forget it.
Not in a mercenary way, just in the way of old friends who've seen each other through everything.
Eliza doesn't understand the history. She sees Margot as intrusive, clingy, too present in our lives.
We've argued about it, or at least Eliza has tried to argue and I've tried to reassure her there's nothing to worry about.
Margot is like a sister. Messy, demanding, occasionally exhausting, but family nonetheless.
The call stretches past eleven. Past eleven-thirty. By the time Margot has calmed down enough to function, I've missed two meetings and rescheduled a lunch with a prospective donor. My assistant, Carla, gives me a look when I finally emerge from my office.
Carla holds out a message slip. "Your wife called. About an hour ago."
Guilt flickers, familiar and easily dismissed. "I'll call her back."
"She said not to worry. Something about confirming plans for Saturday."
Saturday. The coast drive. We talked about it weeks ago, finding that lobster shack we'd loved during our honeymoon, the one with the picnic tables overlooking the water.
I'd promised we'd go. I meant it when I said it.
I always mean it. The problem is that meaning it doesn't clear the calendar, and something always needs me more urgently than a lobster shack.
I pull up my calendar. Saturday shows three conflicts: a site visit to a restoration project in Gloucester, a conference call with the Hong Kong permitting office that couldn't be rescheduled, and a note I apparently made to myself two weeks ago that just says Eliza, coast drive, DON'T FORGET.
The note makes me smile. I do know my own weaknesses.
By the time I get home, it's almost eight.
The apartment is quiet, no music playing, no sound from the kitchen.
I find Eliza on the balcony, wrapped in a sweater despite the June warmth, staring out at the harbor.
The dining table behind her is bare. It has been since I came home on Saturday.
I apologized yesterday, and she told me she had cleared the table.
She never said it was fine. I have been treating it as if she did.
"Hey." I lean down to kiss her cheek. She turns her head slightly, not quite avoiding it but not meeting it either. "Sorry I'm late. The Hendricks meeting ran over, and then Margot called about Richard, and the whole thing turned into a production."
"It's fine." Her voice is flat in a way I've noticed more often lately. Not angry, exactly. More like tired. "Did you eat?"
"Grabbed something at the office. You?"
"I managed."
I settle into the chair beside her, close enough to touch if I reached out. I don't reach out. She's upset about something, I can tell by the set of her shoulders, and I should ask. I should want to ask. But I'm so tired, and part of me just wants one conversation that isn't work.
She keeps looking at the water. "So Saturday. The coast drive. Still happening?"
I hesitate a beat too long.
"Julian." Now she turns to look at me, and there's something in her expression I can't quite read. "We've been planning this for a month."
"I know. It's just... there's a site visit in Gloucester, and Hong Kong needs a call, and..." I trail off at the look on her face. "I could move things around. Push the call to Sunday morning."
"You could." She waits.
"Let me check with Carla tomorrow. See what's possible."
"What's possible." She repeats the phrase like it tastes wrong. "Right."
"Liza." I use the nickname from our early days, hoping it softens whatever is building between us. "I want to go. I do. The lobster shack, the whole thing. It sounds perfect."
"It sounded perfect two weeks ago too. And three weeks before that."
"I'm trying. The foundation is just... there's so much that needs attention right now. We're at a critical stage with the restoration permits, and if I don't personally manage the Hong Kong situation..."
"I know." She stands, pulling the sweater tighter. "I know all of that. You've explained it. Repeatedly."
I stand too, catching her arm before she can retreat inside. "Hey. Talk to me. What's going on?"
For a moment I think she's going to tell me something real. Her eyes meet mine and there's so much there, a whole conversation we haven't been having, questions she hasn't been asking. I wait for it, almost wanting the fight if it means we're actually connecting.
Then her shoulders drop and she smiles, and it's almost convincing.
"I'm tired. Long day. Let me know about Saturday when you know."
She slips inside, and I stay where I am, watching the harbor lights. Something just happened. I'm not sure what. I should follow her and find out.
I don't.
I pull out my phone and open the calendar app.
Saturday's conflicts glare at me: Gloucester, Hong Kong, the note about the coast drive.
I type a reminder: RESCHEDULE CONFLICTS.
COAST DRIVE PRIORITY. I'll deal with it tomorrow, when I'm fresh, when I can think clearly about how to make everything fit.
The reminder joins a dozen others I've made and forgotten.
In the bedroom, Eliza is already under the covers, facing the wall. I brush my teeth, change into sleep pants, slide in beside her. The mattress is king-sized, plenty of room for two people who used to sleep tangled together and now maintain careful inches of distance.
I turn toward her on the pillow. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
I reach for her, my hand finding the curve of her waist through the blanket. She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't move closer either. Just lies there, still and separate, as if my touch is something to be tolerated rather than welcomed.
I leave my hand where it is. After a few minutes, her breathing evens out, or maybe she's just pretending.
I set an alarm early enough to speak to her before I leave for the office.
Beside me, the sheets move.
"Liza?"
Her hand closes around mine. For a moment, I think she's going to pull me closer.
She lifts it from her waist and sets it on the mattress between us.