Chapter Ten—Lorna
CHRIS HAS BEEN AT THE lodge for five days, and I still don’t know what to do with him. He sleeps in the guesthouse. He makes his own coffee, though he finally bought fresh grounds after two mornings of drinking whatever stale bag I left in the cabinet last winter.
He bought groceries without asking what I needed and came back with eggs, bread, butter, the olive oil I like, and a bag of lemons. He left the things he thought I might want on the porch in a paper sack instead of knocking.
He was right about the olive oil.
I don’t know whether that makes me angrier or sadder.
On the third morning, the fence post I’ve been meaning to replace finally gives up and falls into the grass. Chris spots it when he’s walking back from the lodge after coffee. He stops, tests the rotted wood with the toe of his boot, then looks toward the kitchen window.
I step away before he can catch me watching.
An hour later, his car leaves. He comes back with a treated post, concrete mix, a shovel, and enough hardware to rebuild half the fence. I take my laptop to the kitchen table and spend three hours pretending newsletter copy requires my full attention while he digs out the old footing.
Chris isn’t especially graceful with a shovel.
Twice, he has to widen the hole because the post won’t sit correctly.
He disappears into the guesthouse at one point and comes back wearing an old T-shirt instead of the button-down he’d started in.
By noon, dirt streaks one leg of his jeans and there’s a dark patch between his shoulder blades.
He checks the post with a level, adjusts it, and checks again.
It’s quite entertaining.
I remember him promising to replace my showerhead three years ago. Apparently, fences have better timing.
The thought is unfair. I know that even while I’m having it.
Chris didn’t come here knowing I’d need a fence repaired.
He saw something broken and fixed it. He isn’t making a production out of it or waiting for me to admire the result.
When the concrete is set, he carries the rotten post behind the woodshed, cleans the shovel with the hose, and returns everything he borrowed from my shed.
Then he goes back to the guesthouse.
I stare at the straight new post through the kitchen window until my coffee gets cold.
Physical attraction would be much more convenient if betrayal killed it, but it doesn’t. I still want my husband, at least physically.
Later that afternoon, Willa finds me standing beside the post and pushes on it with one hand. “He does decent work.”
I give her a look.
“What?” She steps back. “I’m evaluating the fence.”
“Please don’t.”
One corner of her mouth moves before she heads toward the lodge.
That is the extent of her commentary on Chris.
The first night he was here, she’d made her position clear while we sat at the kitchen table. “If you want him gone tomorrow, I’ll make sure he leaves.”
“I know.”
“You don’t owe him access because he followed me halfway out of Charleston.”
“I know that too.” She’d waited until I finally admitted, “I want to see what he does.”
So far, Chris mostly does what I ask. He stays in the guesthouse unless I invite him to the porch. He doesn’t appear at meals unless I specifically include him. When I tell him I have a call, he leaves. When I close my laptop, he doesn’t treat it as an invitation to start a marriage conversation.
He apologized once and hasn’t apologized every morning since. I’m grateful for that.
There are only so many times I can hear that he’s sorry before the words become another thing I’m expected to respond to.
His work is harder to ignore.
I can see the guesthouse window from my kitchen. Some nights, his lamp stays on until after eleven. During the day, calls drift through the trees when his window is open.
There are fewer of them than there were when he arrived. I notice because I can’t seem to stop noticing him.
Jensen’s name comes up often. Outside counsel. Richard Moray once. The investigator twice.
Fenton less than before, but not never. On Wednesday afternoon, I’m carrying laundry upstairs when Chris’s voice carries from the guesthouse.
“Fenton, send the revised schedule directly to Jensen. He’ll handle the lender call.”
I keep climbing.
A few minutes later, another piece reaches me through the open hall window.
“No, I don’t need the briefing notes. Send the full file.”
I pause with the basket against my hip. That one is new.
By Thursday, I can tell Chris is changing the way he works even if I can’t tell how much. He answers his own phone, calls Jensen directly, and spends one entire morning on documents instead of asking somebody to summarize them.
Fenton still handles routine things.
That’s what bothers me. He managed me for over two years, denied me access to my husband, and made decisions about my safety on his own. I don’t like him and simply don’t want him in my marriage anymore.
I’ve already told Chris that. I haven’t insisted he fire Fenton just to maybe get a chance at winning me back. I don’t feel right doing that when I haven’t even decided if I still want to be with Chris.
Thursday afternoon, I hear Fenton’s name again, and resentment wells.
I’m at the kitchen counter cutting a lemon when Chris walks past the window with his phone against his ear.
“Have Jensen send the revisions directly to me. You can handle the courier.”
I stop cutting.
Chris continues toward the guesthouse. “The same post office is fine. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
My knife stays on the cutting board.
The post office in town. Fenton already had it because of the last package. This isn’t new information. That doesn’t make me like hearing it.
Willa comes into the kitchen through the mudroom carrying a folder. I point toward the window with the knife before realizing that’s probably poor etiquette around a former Secret Service agent. “He’s still using Fenton.”
Her eyes drop to the knife.
I set it down. “For business.”
“I assumed that’s what you meant.” She looks once more at the blade, probably speculating if I’m planning to jam it into my stubborn husband or Fenton.
Don’t tempt me.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel. “He told me he was changing the parameters.”
“Has he?”
“Some.” The admission is grudging. “Jensen is handling more. Chris is taking his own calls, and I haven’t had to speak to Fenton. I just hear about him.”
Willa puts the folder on the counter. “Then he is changing them.”
I don’t like how reasonable she sounds. “He just gave Fenton the post office again.”
“He already had that information.”
“I know.” I rub my fingertips against the lemon rind stuck to the cutting board. “I don’t like it.”
“That’s different from it being unsafe.” Willa waits until I look at her. “Keep those separate. Your personal opinion of Fenton and the security problem aren’t the same issue.”
“That doesn’t mean I trust him.”
“You don’t have to.”
I pick up the knife again but don’t resume cutting. “What would you do about Chris still running his life through people who know everything?”
Willa straightens. “I’d limit information until we know how the intruder got what he had.”
“Even with employees who’ve been around for years?”
“Yes. Information moves.” She taps the folder with one finger.
“Your alarm code existed outside your direct control. So did service credentials. Your routines were known by staff, vendors, drivers, building personnel, assistants, and assistants to assistants. Most of that is ordinary for a household at your income level. Ordinary doesn’t mean we keep doing all of it while we’re trying to determine how a stranger got private access. ”
That gives me a legitimate reason to reduce Fenton’s role even further, which I appreciate unabashedly. “What should Chris stop sharing?”
“His exact location. Travel plans that don’t need to be known. Anything connected to this property. Investigation details unless the person receiving them has a reason to have them.”
I stare toward the guesthouse. Chris is no longer outside. “Will you tell him?”
Willa studies me. “Do you want me to?”
I think about that. Two weeks ago, I would have wanted a professional standing beside me before I challenged Chris. Proof. Credentials. Somebody harder for him to dismiss.
I don’t need that now. “No.” I pick up my coffee. “I’ll tell him.”
Willa gives me a look I can’t quite interpret, takes her folder, and goes upstairs.
CHRIS COMES TO THE porch a little after five. The temperature has dropped enough that I’ve pulled a blanket over my legs, and my laptop has been closed on the table for twenty minutes. He notices that before anything else.
“Bad time?”
“No.” I watch him stop at the bottom of the steps instead of assuming he’s welcome. When he asks if he can come up, I gesture toward his usual chair. “Yes. Sit.”
Chris takes the chair at the opposite end rather than the one beside me. He’s wearing jeans and a navy sweater, and there’s still a faint scrape along one wrist from replacing the fence post. I look at it too long, and he catches me.
“The post fought back.” He gives me that slow, private smile.
My stomach flips, which is irritating enough without him noticing. I raise my mug to hide whatever my face is doing. “Who won?”
“Ask me after the first storm.” Chris settles into the chair but doesn’t push the teasing further. He waits, apparently aware that I didn’t invite him up here to discuss carpentry.
“I heard you talking to Fenton today.” I set my coffee beside the laptop and pull the blanket a little higher over my knees. “You told him to use the same post office.”
The ease leaves Chris’s face. “For another document package. I didn’t give him anything new.”
“I know.” I study him for a moment, trying to decide whether I’m angry about the security implications or simply angry because Fenton’s name is still woven through our lives. “I talked to Willa about it.”
His attention shifts briefly toward the lodge. “About Fenton?”
“About security.” I don’t want him misunderstanding this again.