Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Marilyn
The next morning, the hall outside my hotel room smelled like delightful flowers.
Housekeeping staff clustered in twos and threes, whispering and pointing as they shuffled armfuls of flowers up and down the corridor.
Roses, peonies, orchids—arrangements so elaborate they looked fake, or at least designed for a more important woman than me.
One delivery guy, eyes wide, said, “I think this is the rest of your shipment,” as he balanced a box the size of a small coffin on his knee.
The door to my room barely opened. I squeezed through, stepping over bouquets stacked two deep on the carpet, the air heavy with pollen and apology.
This was not the first time Michael had used flowers as a bandage.
When we’d fought over a disastrous investment years ago, he’d sent a dozen red roses every day for a week, until our toddler daughter, then barely verbal, pointed at the final delivery and said, “Daddy’s sorry again.
” I had laughed then, because it was funny, and because he’d eventually earned his way out of the doghouse.
But now, the extravagance made my skin crawl. Every bouquet was a silent insistence that money could buy redemption, or at least distract from the wound. Each petal felt like a bribe.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the note from the largest arrangement trembling in my hand.
I’m sorry, Mare. I can’t say it enough. –Michael
I called him, not because I wanted to talk, but because the act of dialing felt like the only way to cut through the suffocating scent.
He answered on the first ring.
“Marilyn,” he said, voice unsteady.
“You need to stop,” I said, skipping hello.
There was a silence, then, “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Not this. Not—this.” I waved a hand at the ocean of flowers, even though he couldn’t see. “You still don’t get it.”
He sounded so small. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder,” I said, and hung up.
I left the flowers where they were, and went out into the sharp, unscented air.
The next morning, I found a hotel staffer gingerly moving a stack of tulip arrangements into an elevator.
“They’re all yours, right?” she said, half-smiling, half-expecting a meltdown.
“Donate them,” I said. “To hospitals, care homes, wherever you want. I don’t need a single one in my room.”
She seemed relieved, maybe even grateful for an answer. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
I watched as housekeeping coordinated the evacuation of a small rainforest, each arrangement trundled off to brighten a place that probably needed the boost. By the time I returned from breakfast, the room was clean, the air cleared of apology and expectation.
That evening, my phone vibrated again. This time, a simple text from Michael: Can we meet somewhere neutral? No speeches. Just practical things.
I considered ignoring him, but curiosity—or maybe a need to see if he’d really changed—got the better of me. I replied: Fine. But no gifts, no flowers, no grand gestures.
Just me, he answered, within seconds.
I set the meeting for a nondescript café in downtown Mill Valley, the kind of place neither of us would be recognized.
I chose a booth far from the windows, ordered a coffee, and waited.
I kept my bag beside me, my hands in my lap, my eyes fixed on the menu, refusing to let nostalgia soften the edges.
He arrived on time, wearing a suit that looked like it had been slept in. He didn’t try to hug me, or even reach for my hand. He just sat, hands flat on the table.
“You look tired,” I said, unable to help myself.
“So do you,” he replied.
We talked about practicalities—bank accounts, bills, the children, how we’d handle the inevitable Ashford family events. He didn’t once ask for forgiveness, or try to explain himself. He spoke in facts, not hopes.
When everything was covered, he looked at me and said, “I want you to know: I’m not expecting anything from you. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
I nodded. For the first time since his confession, I almost believed him.
“Thank you,” I said. I meant it.
We left the café separately.
I went back to the hotel and, for the first time since the world had turned upside down, slept through the night.