4. Maren
— ? —
Maren
The Sinclair looks different when I’m working it.
Now I’m just another vendor.
“Maren, where do you want the garden roses?” Nora holds up a bucket, waiting for direction.
“Back table, near the windows. The photographer said they want the natural light to catch the arrangement.”
She nods and disappears into the crowd of people setting up for the magazine shoot. Architectural Digest is doing a feature on the company’s ten-year anniversary, the company, not The Sinclair specifically, though this is where they’re shooting because it’s the flagship. The prettiest child.
I should have handed this job off to someone else. I should have checked the calendar when Nina booked it six months ago and said absolutely not, find another florist, I can’t be a prop in my husband’s PR campaign.
But I didn’t. Because six months ago, things were different. Six months ago, I still thought we were turning a corner.
“You okay?” Nora asks, reappearing at my elbow.
“Fine.”
“You’re arranging those peonies like they personally wronged you.”
I look down. She’s right. I’ve been shoving stems into the vase with enough force to bruise the petals. I loosen my grip and take a breath.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. “Just focused.”
Nora doesn’t believe me, I can tell by the way she doesn’t push it. My sister knows when to leave me alone with my denial.
The crew has taken over the main event space, turning it into a controlled chaos of lighting rigs and reflective panels. Rhodes is somewhere in the middle of it all, probably being positioned for shots while someone adjusts the collar of his jacket.
I haven’t seen him yet. I’m not avoiding him, exactly. I’m just staying in my lane.
“Mrs. Calloway?”
I turn to find a woman with a tablet and a headset, looking harried in the way everyone at these things always does. “The writer wants to know if you have a few minutes for a quick interview. Just color for the piece, you know, the personal angle.”
“I’m not part of the story.”
“You’re married to the founder. That’s part of the story.”
“I’m the florist.”
She blinks at me like I’ve said something confusing. “Right, but also-”
“I’m just the florist today.” I turn back to my peonies. “Talk to his publicist.”
She retreats, and I feel Nora watching me.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Good.”
“Just that you could have been nicer.”
“Nora.”
“Okay, okay.” She holds up her hands. “I’m arranging. Silently.”
I finish the centerpiece and start on the next one, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of it. Stems, greens, focal flowers, fillers. The mechanics of beauty, the architecture of something that’ll die in a week but look perfect for a photograph.
From across the room, I hear Rhodes’s voice. Not the words, just the cadence of it, the interview mode he slips into for press. Lower, more measured, with strategic pauses that make him sound thoughtful instead of just careful.
I know that voice. I used to coach him on it, back when he was terrified of public speaking and practiced presentations in our bathroom mirror while I sat on the edge of the tub and gave him notes.
Now he doesn’t need notes. Now he’s good at this.
I move to the back table where Nora set up the garden roses, adjusting the arrangement for the light. From here, I can see the interview setup, two chairs angled toward each other, a camera crew, the writer with her recorder.
And Rhodes. Sitting across from Rachel Vaughn.
Of course Rachel’s there. She’s his right hand, and she’s been with the company almost as long as I’ve been married to its founder. The story of the company is her story too, in a lot of ways.
I just didn’t realize how much.
“The Chicago property was the first time we really knew we had something scalable,” Rachel is saying. “Rhodes found this abandoned manufacturing plant, completely gutted, terrible location, and I remember thinking he’d finally lost his mind.”
The writer laughs. “But it worked out.”
“It’s our third highest-grossing venue now.” Rachel glances at Rhodes with a grin. “Though I maintain that my objections were valid at the time.”
“Your objections are always valid,” Rhodes says dryly. “And always overruled.”
“Someone has to be the voice of reason.”
“I thought that was the numbers guy’s job.”
“Julian handles the numbers. I handle the madness.”
They have a rhythm. An easy back-and-forth that comes from years of shared context, inside jokes, survived disasters. I recognize it because Rhodes and I used to have it.
“What about the early years?” the writer asks. “Before Chicago, before the expansion. What was it like building something from scratch?”
Rhodes leans back in his chair. “Terrifying, mostly. I was twenty-six with no track record and a vision that sounded delusional when I said it out loud. The only reason The Sinclair worked is because I found people who were willing to be delusional with me.”
“Like Rachel?”
“She was one of the first.” He nods at her. “Third employee. Back when ‘employee’ meant you did everything from booking clients to cleaning bathrooms.”
“I have cleaned so many bathrooms,” Rachel confirms. “Rhodes still owes me for the Pittsburgh incident.”
“We don’t talk about Pittsburgh.”
“We should talk about Pittsburgh. It’s a formative trauma.”
The writer is eating this up, scribbling notes even though the recorder is running. “What was Pittsburgh?”
“A pipe burst,” Rhodes says, clearly reluctant. “The night before a major event. Every bathroom in the building.”
“He was on a plane. Couldn’t land for another four hours.” Rachel shakes her head. “I spent the whole night managing plumbers, rerouting guests, and trying to convince a very unhappy bride that her wedding wasn’t ruined.”
“She pulled it off,” Rhodes says. “I landed to a text that just said handled and a bill for three emergency plumbing crews.”
“And a very expensive bottle of bourbon, which you still owe me.”
“I bought you that bourbon. Two Christmases ago.”
“That was for the Denver incident. Pittsburgh remains outstanding.”
I’m frozen by the back table, garden roses forgotten. I don’t know about Pittsburgh, or Denver, or Chicago or the manufacturing plant or whatever formative trauma bonded them over a burst pipe.
These are the kind of stories husbands tell their wives. The kind of stories I used to hear, back when Rhodes came home and talked about his day instead of just apologizing for missing mine.
“Tell me about the Singapore expansion,” the writer says. “That was a turning point for the company, right?”
Rhodes nods. “Biggest risk we’ve taken. International markets, different regulations, cultural considerations we’d never dealt with before. The learning curve was vertical.”
“How many trips did that take?”
“In the first year?” He thinks about it. “Twelve? Fourteen? Rachel was there for most of them.”
“Had to be,” she says. “Someone had to keep him from insulting business partners by accident. His Mandarin is atrocious.”
“My Mandarin is functional.”
“Your Mandarin made someone important think you were complimenting his shoes when you meant to compliment his portfolio.”
Rhodes winces. “That was a translation app issue.”
“Sure it was.”
The writer laughs again, delighted by the rapport. “It sounds like you two have been through a lot together.”
“Ten years of building something from nothing,” Rachel says simply. “That creates a bond.”
“Like a foxhole friendship,” the writer suggests.
Rachel tilts her head. “Something like that.”
I don’t hear what comes next. The blood rushing in my ears drowns it out. I’m still standing there with my hands full of roses, watching my husband share war stories with a woman who was there for battles I didn’t even know he was fighting.
“Maren?” Nora appears beside me, voice low. “You’re crushing the stems.”
I look down. She’s right. My grip has tightened until the rose stems are bent, the thorns digging into my palm through the gloves.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
I set down the damaged flowers and strip off my gloves, suddenly desperate for air that doesn’t smell like my husband’s success.
“I need a minute,” I tell her. “Finish the back table.”
“Maren-”
But I’m already walking, away from the interview setup, away from the easy laughter and shared history, toward the back hallway where the catering prep happens and nobody will notice the florist having a small breakdown.
The hallway is quiet. Industrial lighting, concrete floors, the bones of the building that never make it into the magazine spreads. I lean against the wall and press my palms flat against it, letting the cool seep into my skin.
Fourteen trips to Singapore. In one year.
How many of those did I know about? How many times did he call from a hotel room and tell me about the translation mishaps, the difficult people, the meals with Rachel where they strategized over whatever crisis was unfolding?
I knew he traveled, knew he was building something enormous, something that demanded everything he had. I was proud of him for it, even when the pride came with a side of resentment.
But I didn’t know the stories. I didn’t know the texture of his days. I didn’t know that Pittsburgh was a formative trauma or that Denver required expensive bourbon or that his Mandarin once caused a diplomatic incident.
Rachel knows.
Rachel was there.
“Maren?”
I look up to find the writer standing at the end of the hallway, tablet in hand. She’s young, maybe twenty-eight, with the eager energy of someone who thinks they’re about to land a great story.
“Hi.” She walks toward me. “I’m so glad I caught you. Would you mind a few questions? Just quick ones, for context.”
“I really can’t-”
“You’re his wife.” She says it like a magic word, like it opens all doors. “The readers will want to know about the person behind the empire. What’s Rhodes like at home? How do you balance marriage with his schedule? That kind of thing.”
“He’s… he’s good at home.” The words feel thin. “When he’s there.”
“And when he’s not?”