CHAPTER SIX #2
“You mentioned it at the Mercer Street exhibition. The loading door jammed, and while four of us tried to force it open, you explained how you would redesign the Bellweather entrance.”
“I had forgotten.”
“I haven't. You wanted studio space upstairs and a public gallery that did not charge admission.”
The details unsettled her. Graham had lived beside that notebook for years and probably could not have named the building.
“I drew plans for it.”
“What happened to them?”
“They're in a drawer.”
Owen took a sip of water. “That sounds like storage, not an answer.”
The directness surprised her.
“The company happened. Then the marriage. We wanted children.”
“Those things explain how your time was used.”
“What is the difference?”
“I asked what happened to the dream. You listed everything that became more important to other people.”
Laurel studied him.
Owen's expression contained no judgment. He appeared genuinely interested in the answer, which made avoiding it more difficult.
“I stopped believing it belonged in my real life.”
“Why?”
“Laurel.”
Graham's voice reached them before Laurel could respond.
He approached with Taryn several steps behind him. His attention moved from Owen to the cushion at Laurel's back.
“I was looking for you.”
“I've been here.”
Graham glanced at the wooden structure. “You're sitting on an exhibit.”
“The artist encourages it.”
Owen extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Graham.”
Graham shook it. “Price. I didn't realize your gallery was participating.”
“Our name is listed on the invitation.”
“I haven't had time to study every sponsor.”
“No reason you should. You only funded the event.”
The words were courteous. Something beneath them was not.
Taryn stepped forward with the tablet held against her waist. “The auction begins in six minutes.”
Graham acknowledged her, then addressed Laurel. “We need photographs near the stage.”
“My back hurts.”
Concern appeared, followed quickly by calculation. Graham looked toward the waiting photographers and then at her shoes.
“Can you manage ten minutes?”
Owen picked up the cushion. “There are event chairs behind the stage. I can ask someone to place one near the photographers.”
“I can handle my wife.”
The sentence sharpened the space around them.
Laurel placed her glass beside the installation and stood without taking either man's arm.
“I need a chair, not handling.”
Graham's mouth tightened.
Owen gave the cushion to a passing coordinator and asked her to arrange seating near the stage. Then he turned to Laurel.
“Congratulations on the baby.”
“Thank you.”
“And if you want the Bellweather survey when the property is listed, Nadine knows how to reach me.”
He left before Graham could question him.
Taryn looked between Laurel and Graham. “I'll tell Russell you need another minute.”
“No.” Graham adjusted his jacket. “We're coming.”
The photographs took twelve minutes.
Graham stood beside Laurel with one hand around her waist. Taryn remained outside the camera frame, signaling where they should look. When Laurel shifted because of the pressure in her spine, Graham drew her closer and whispered that they were almost finished.
Afterward, he accompanied her to the car but did not enter.
“I need to stay for the auction.”
“You promised to remain beside me.”
“She works for me. Tonight required her involvement.”
“So did your wife.”
Graham lowered his voice as several guests walked past them. “You were sitting in a corner discussing private ambitions with another man. Perhaps we should also examine what you were doing.”
Laurel stared at him. “Owen told me a building is being sold.”
“He remembered personal conversations from eight years ago.”
“So did I.”
“And you offered him details about our marriage?”
“I told him we wanted children. That is not private. You announced my pregnancy to an entire ballroom.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Graham. I don't.”
He placed one hand on the roof of the car and leaned closer. “Men do not offer expensive property information to married women without a reason.”
“The Bellweather is not his property.”
“That does not make him harmless.”
“Owen found me a chair. You left me standing while you followed Taryn around your own event.”
“I was working.”
“And I was talking.”
“With a man who was interested in you.”
Laurel felt the baby move low in her abdomen. She rested one hand over the place.
“You are accusing me because Owen remembered something I wanted before I became your wife.”
“I am warning you to understand his intentions.”
“What are Taryn's intentions?”
Graham looked away.
There were dozens of answers available to him. He could deny the affair again, reassure Laurel, or acknowledge the message she had seen on his phone. Instead, he opened the car door.
“You are exhausted and looking for a fight. Go home.”
Laurel entered the car because remaining on the pavement would not make him listen.
Graham bent toward the open door. “I will be back after the auction.”
“What time?”
“I don't know.”
He shut the door and returned to the exhibition.
The driver pulled away.
Laurel watched the illuminated windows of the freight terminal diminish behind them. Through the entrance, she saw Taryn meet Graham and hand him the tablet. He bent toward her so she could speak near his ear.
They disappeared inside together.
Laurel spent the rest of the drive with one hand beneath her stomach, supporting its weight as the baby moved.
At the mansion, Rosa offered to bring food upstairs. Laurel declined and went directly to the bedroom.
The Bellweather notebook remained beneath the evening purses.
She removed it and carried it to the small desk near the window. Dust had gathered along the top edge. Laurel wiped it away with her thumb and opened to the first sketch.
The pages smelled faintly of old paper and the hand cream her grandmother used to keep beside the telephone.
Laurel found a pencil.
Beneath the original drawing of the theatre, she wrote the date Owen had given her.
For sale before spring.
She left the notebook open on the desk.