Chapter Forty
The therapy program was approved in March. The foundation funded a twelve-month pilot. Halvorsen Holdings covered transportation and six scholarship slots with no naming rights attached. That last part had been Beckett’s idea.
“No plaque?” I asked.
“No plaque.”
“No press release?”
“Only if the foundation wants one.”
“No oversized ceremonial check?”
“I will resign before holding one of those.”
I laughed. Spring arrived badly. Mud first. Then wind. Then three days of warmth that convinced every horse on the property to shed enough hair to build another horse.
Harlow Creek filled. Four new boarders. Two rescue placements. One therapy mare on trial. The east pasture fencing started in April.
For the first time since I left, I was too busy to think about my marriage every hour. That was healthy. It was also when the first real rumor hit. June called while I was unloading salt blocks.
“Don’t open Harlow Creek Local.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The Facebook group.”
“I know what Harlow Creek Local is. Why?”
“Because somebody posted a photo of Beckett with a woman in Denver.”
My stomach dropped.
“What woman?”
“I don’t know. Business-looking. Blond. Restaurant.”
Everything around me sharpened. The salt block in my hands. Wind against the shed door. A crow on the fence. My body reacted before thought.
Cold. Humiliation. Fear. Then anger at myself for feeling humiliated when I did not even know what the photo was.
“Send it.”
“Mara—”
“Send it.”
The photo arrived. Beckett sat at a restaurant table across from a blond woman in a navy blazer. They were leaning toward each other. The caption read: Looks like the groveling didn’t last long. Halvorsen spotted in Denver with mystery blonde while wife rebuilds ranch.
My vision blurred. Not because I believed it. Because I had spent our entire marriage being the last person informed about whatever consumed his attention. I stared at the picture. Then I called him.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey.”
“Where are you?”
A pause.
“Denver.”
My chest tightened.
“With who?”
Silence. Not guilty silence. Surprised silence.
“Dana.”
I closed my eyes. Dana Ruiz. Operating president. Blond. Navy blazer.
Of course.
“Why?”
“Bank meeting. Then dinner with the lending team. Dana and I stayed after to review notes. What’s wrong?”
I sent him the screenshot. His curse came through the phone three seconds later.
“Mara.”
“I know who she is now.”
“I should have told you I was traveling.”
That stopped me. Old Beckett would have said the picture was ridiculous. Old Beckett would have argued that I should trust him. Old Beckett would have focused on innocence. This Beckett found the wound underneath it.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
“I didn’t think it was relevant.”
Pain flashed.
“Exactly.”
“No.”
His voice changed.
“Not exactly. I hear it.”
I sat on a feed sack.
“I don’t need your itinerary.”
He accepted that.
“I don’t want a marriage where we report every movement.”
“Neither do I.”
“But if you’re spending the night in another state, maybe that’s something people who are trying to rebuild a marriage tell each other.”
“Yes.”
“And not because Dana is a woman.”
“Yes.”
“Because I don’t want to learn your life from strangers.”
His voice softened.
“You’re right.”
I breathed through the leftover adrenaline.
“I’m embarrassed that the picture upset me.”
“Don’t be.”
“I knew you weren’t cheating.”
“You didn’t know anything. That’s the problem.”
I went quiet.
“I can come home tonight,” he said.
“No.”
“Mara—”
“Don’t turn this into an emergency. Finish your meetings.”
“I don’t want you sitting with this.”
“I’m not sitting with suspicion. I’m sitting with anger. Different thing.”
He exhaled.
“Okay.”
“Call me when you’re done tonight.”
“I will.”
“And Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“Do not fire Dana because Facebook can’t identify a woman in a blazer.”
He laughed unexpectedly.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“For what it’s worth, she saw the post before I did and said if I make her marriage collateral damage, she’ll quit.”
“I like her more every day.”
“Everybody does. It’s becoming a problem.”
We hung up. I stared at the photo again. Then I did something I had never done during our marriage. I posted publicly. Not because Beckett needed defending.
Because I did not want other people narrating me. Dana Ruiz is Halvorsen Holdings’ operating president. She and Beckett are in Denver for business. Please do not turn a professional woman into gossip because she had dinner with her colleague. I hesitated. Then added:
My marriage is complicated enough without crowdsourcing fiction. Post. Within ten minutes, comments exploded. June texted: ICONIC. Tessa walked into the shed.
“Did you just publicly tell the town to mind its business?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so proud.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
That night, Beckett called at nine. We talked for forty minutes. Not about Dana. About Denver traffic. Poppy’s progress.
The pilot program. A mystery novel whose ending he hated. Before we hung up, he said, “I’m flying back tomorrow at noon. Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“At your place?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bring food.”
“Not flowers.”
“Food is not a grand gesture.”
“Depends on the food.”
“Tacos.”
“Approved.”
The next evening, he arrived with tacos and no defensiveness. We ate on the porch because the weather had turned warm. Afterward, he took my hand.
“Can I tell you something I realized in Denver?”
“Sure.”
“I used privacy as an excuse for exclusion.”
I looked at him.
“Explain.”
“I always thought I didn’t need to tell you every detail because marriage shouldn’t require reporting. Which is true. But I used that principle to justify not sharing enough of myself for you to feel included.”
I swallowed.
“I don’t need details.”
He left the question there.
He squeezed my hand.
“You needed access.”
That was it. Not access to his phone. Not access to his calendar. Access to him. I leaned my head on his shoulder.
“Yes.”
He kissed my hair.
“I’m sorry.”
This time the apology did not hurt. It fit.