Chapter 10
Ethan
The foundation chair called on a Tuesday morning in late March.
The review was complete. Vivian's employment would end under the process the board had followed. Her account, the event messages, and her later admission had established a breach of trust the board could not ignore.
I listened without interrupting.
“The communication will be factual,” the chair said. “No speculation about motives. No medical information about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
“You'll receive the transition arrangements for the programs. Necessary questions go through my office.”
“Understood.”
After the call, I sat looking at the foundation's name on the folder before me.
There were children whose scholarships depended on the work. Staff who had done nothing wrong. Removing Vivian did not make any of those responsibilities disappear, and turning her departure into a public punishment would only give the wrong people another crisis to manage.
I approved the resources the interim director requested and stayed out of the personnel statement.
Vivian sent a message that afternoon.
After everything, surely you can give me ten minutes to say goodbye.
Ten minutes.
I had borrowed those from Audrey so often that the phrase felt like a debt.
I answered once.
There won't be a private meeting. Please direct necessary foundation matters to the chair.
Then I put the phone down.
I did not send Audrey a screenshot. She wasn't my supervisor. I didn't need to submit every decent decision for her approval.
At lunch, I met the interim director to review continuity for the scholarship program. She arrived with three decisions that required my input and a larger set she had already made within her authority.
I almost asked why I hadn't been consulted on the latter.
Then I looked at the delegation policy I had approved years earlier. The authority had always existed. Vivian had preferred to route decisions through me, and I had mistaken the resulting closeness for exceptional commitment.
The interim director pointed to a line in the budget.
“This is the only item that exceeds the agreed limit.”
We discussed it for ten minutes. I approved it after asking two questions. She closed the folder.
“That's everything I need.”
The meeting ended early.
I sat alone for a moment, absurdly unsettled by how little drama competence required.
That afternoon, I reviewed my own calendar with my assistant. We protected the date with Audrey, but we also established who could authorize urgent operational responses while I was unavailable. I wasn't going to stage a romantic evening by making someone else's work impossible.
My assistant asked whether the arrangement applied only on Thursdays.
“No. It should be normal.”
She nodded and began changing the guidance.
It struck me that Audrey had spent years asking for something my staff could accommodate in a short meeting. The obstacle had been my reluctance to let being a husband count as a sufficient reason to stop working.
I wrote the dinner time in my calendar myself. Then I closed it and finished the work in front of me, rather than spending the afternoon composing a speech about what the evening meant.
Audrey had invited me to walk with her. I could begin by turning up ready to hear what she wanted to show me.
Our next date was Thursday.
I had asked what would fit around her work, and she had suggested a walk before dinner. There was a row of houses near the theatre she wanted to look at in the evening light.
I arrived at the studio at the agreed time and waited outside until she came down. Her coat was open, her scarf badly arranged, a folder tucked beneath one arm.
“You're staring,” she said.
“I've been told that's preferable to checking email.”
“Only if you occasionally blink.”
I took the folder when she offered it and fell into step beside her.
The air had softened since January. Snow remained in dirty scraps along the curb, but the pavement was dry. Someone had opened the door of a bakery, releasing warm sugar into the street.
Audrey stopped before a building with a new glass entrance.
“Look at that.”
I looked.
“You dislike it.”
“What gave me away?”
“The expression normally reserved for cold coffee.”
She pointed at the frame. “They've made the entrance compete with the building instead of belong to it.”
“It lets in light.”
“So does removing the roof. We don't recommend it indiscriminately.”
I laughed.
She moved closer to inspect the join, then caught herself and stepped back from the private doorway.
“Are you going to leave a note?” I asked.
“I have standards.”
“That's why I asked.”
Her smile came quickly. I wanted to keep earning that expression without making her responsible for how much I wanted it.
We walked another block. She showed me a doorway she loved, then a repaired lintel she thought almost right. I argued about a railing partly because I disagreed and partly because watching her dismantle my case was the most enjoyable thing I'd done all week.
Halfway back, she became quiet.
“Would you like to sit?” I asked.
She looked at me. “I'm thinking.”
“All right.”
“You can stop watching me for symptoms.”
“I don't know where the line is.”
“Then ask. Once. I'll answer.”
I nodded.
After a moment, she said, “I was thinking about whether to keep the original foyer tiles. Some are too damaged. I want a patch that admits it's new without looking like we ran out of money.”
“What would you do if the budget were unlimited?”
“Probably the same thing, if I were being honest.”
“Then start there.”
She looked at me with mild surprise.
“Occasionally useful,” I said.
“Don't let it affect your confidence.”
At the Copper Finch, the server recognized us and asked whether we wanted the table by the window. Audrey accepted before I could begin overthinking whether familiarity would make her feel cornered.
She chose without asking what I wanted first. I liked the small confidence of it and kept the observation to myself.
We ordered actual dinner this time.
Her knee touched mine beneath the table. Neither of us moved immediately. Then she adjusted her chair, and I let the moment remain a moment instead of turning it into evidence.
“Did you finish the book?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“How far?”
“Enough to dislike the brother.”
“You're supposed to dislike the brother.”
“Then I'm doing well.”
“You're reading, Ethan. There isn't a scoreboard.”
I looked at her.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” I said. “There's a very small scoreboard.”
She laughed into her glass.
My phone vibrated in my coat. I checked the screen because the deputy handling operations had permission to contact me for genuine emergencies.
It was a status update, not a request.
“Everything all right?” Audrey asked.
“Yes. It's covered.”
I put the phone away.
She waited a beat, perhaps for me to explain how important the message had been. I didn't.
We talked about Claire's terrible duvet and the table we'd assembled. Audrey told me Ruth had given her more authority over a contractor meeting. I told her about a disagreement with a director that hadn't ended with me winning.
“How did you survive?” she asked.
“Poorly. I may require soup.”
“Claire charges now.”
“Reasonable.”
When dinner ended, neither of us rushed for the door. Audrey rested her chin briefly on her hand, looking at me in a way I hadn't seen for months.
“What?” I asked.
“You used to be fun.”
“That's a devastating tense.”
“I haven't finished deciding.”
Outside, the air smelled of rain that hadn't arrived yet. I walked her home with the folder beneath my arm.
At her building, she took it from me and held it against her chest.
“I had a good evening,” she said.
“So did I.”
She looked at my mouth.
I stayed where I was. Waiting didn't come naturally, but I was beginning to understand it as something other than inactivity.
“You can ask again,” she said.
My pulse changed.
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
I touched her cheek first. Her skin was cold from the walk. She tipped her face toward mine, and the kiss began gently enough that I could feel the moment she stopped holding herself back.
Her hand caught my coat.
I had kissed her thousands of times. Hurriedly before work. Absently in doorways. In bed when I assumed familiarity made attention unnecessary.
This required all of me.
When she drew back, I rested my forehead briefly against hers.
“Still all right?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her laugh was unsteady. “Annoyingly.”
I smiled.
She didn't invite me up. I didn't ask.
But before she opened the door, she turned back.
“Saturday.”
“What about it?”
“Dinner at my apartment. I'll cook something I can blame on the oven.”
“I'll come.”
“I haven't given you a time.”
“I'll come at the correct time.”
She looked at me for a long moment, her fingers tightening around the folder.
“Come because I asked,” she said. “Not because you think I've come back.”
“I understand.”
For once, I thought I did.