Chapter Eighteen—Lorna
THREE WEEKS AFTER TIM’S arrest, Chris is still living in the guesthouse.
He hasn’t asked when he’s going back to Charleston or whether I’m ready for him to move into the lodge.
He works from the guesthouse most mornings, crosses the yard for meals when I invite him, and handles the occasional trip to Charleston or Charlotte without making either city his default again.
This Tuesday morning, he’s on the guesthouse porch with his laptop open and a mug beside him while I answer email at the kitchen table. Through the window, I can see him pause over something on the screen, pick up his phone, then set it down again.
I’ve been watching him for three weeks. Today, I decide to check something for myself.
I find Aldren Capital’s main number online and call. A woman answers on the second ring. “Aldren Capital.”
I turn my chair slightly toward the kitchen window. “Chris Aldren, please.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“Lorna.”
“One moment, Mrs. Aldren.”
Through the glass, Chris’s phone rings. He glances at the screen before answering. “Hey.”
I lean back in my chair. “How did you know it was me?”
“Carla’s assistant told me.” He looks toward the lodge, finds me at the window, and starts smiling. “You called the main line.”
“I wanted to see what happened.” I spin a pen between my fingers. “What if you’d been in a meeting?”
“She would’ve interrupted.”
“Every meeting?”
Chris closes his laptop halfway. “Every one.”
I lift my eyebrows even though he can’t see the expression clearly from this distance. “Investor meeting?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Still my wife.”
“Board meeting?”
His smile widens. “Are you going to keep escalating until you find an exception?”
“Possibly.”
“Keep going, but you won’t. No exceptions.”
I hang up.
Across the yard, Chris looks down at his phone and laughs. Then he opens his laptop again and goes back to work without crossing over to ask whether he passed.
That part matters almost as much as the answer.
CHRIS DOESN’T KNOW how much I’ve been checking.
Nine days after Tim’s arrest, Aldren Capital announced Carla Reeves as chief operating officer. I found the announcement while searching the company website one morning after Chris left for a run.
I read it twice.
Then I opened the executive page and started looking deeper.
Carla has actual authority. Operations that once moved through Chris and his executive assistant now move through her or through department heads.
The executive-assistant position is gone entirely.
No new Fenton sits outside Chris’s office with access to his calls, travel, personal schedule, and whatever else Chris finds inconvenient.
His travel schedule has changed too. The shared calendar shows two trips in three weeks, both during the day. One to Charleston, one to New York. Both return flights were booked before he left North Carolina.
Chris never mentioned any of this. He hasn’t explained the restructuring during dinner or pointed out every call he answers himself. He hasn’t shown me calendars, announcements, or organizational charts.
I had to go looking. That makes me trust the changes more than I would if he’d presented them as evidence.
There are smaller changes everywhere. Chris cooks most nights now, usually from whatever is already in the refrigerator.
He remembers that the left side of my oven runs hotter and that the good skillet doesn’t go in the dishwasher.
He found the tahini without asking what it was, used it in a sauce, and apparently survived the experience.
The upstairs faucet no longer drips. The woodshed gate closes without lifting it first. Two rotten boards on the guesthouse porch have been replaced.
None of those things repairs a marriage, but I notice them.
Willa is still working for me, though she’s reduced her hours now that Tim is in custody. Raney Media pays her. She reports to me. Chris hasn’t asked for her reports, questioned one of her decisions, or tried to insert himself into the arrangement.
Last Tuesday, Willa came into the kitchen while I was cutting tomatoes for lunch and stole a grape from the bowl beside me. “Your husband told a board member no this morning.”
I set down the knife. “About what?”
“He wanted Chris in New York tomorrow.” Willa popped the grape into her mouth. “Chris told him Carla could handle it.”
I looked toward the guesthouse through the window. “Why are you telling me?”
Willa reached for another grape. “You told me you’re watching.” Then she walked out.
I am watching. I just haven’t decided yet.
THURSDAY EVENING, CHRIS makes roasted chicken with lemon and potatoes in the lodge kitchen. He started cooking here more often after I stopped making him ask every time he needed the stove, though he still sleeps in the guesthouse unless I specifically invite him upstairs.
Willa eats with us. Halfway through dinner, she announces, “I’m driving into town tonight.”
I look up from my plate. “For what?”
“Supplies.”
“That takes an hour.”
She takes another potato. “I’m also staying at the hotel.”
I stare at her.
Willa meets my stare without blinking. “I like hotel shampoo.”
“You have shampoo here.”
“Not hotel shampoo.”
Across the table, Chris concentrates very hard on his chicken.
I point my fork at Willa. “You’re not subtle.”
“I’ve never claimed to be.” She checks her phone. “I’ll be back by nine tomorrow.”
After dinner, she carries out an overnight bag that was clearly packed before she ever announced her sudden fascination with hotel toiletries.
Chris watches the door close behind her, then starts clearing plates. “I didn’t know she was leaving.”
“I know.” I gather the glasses and follow him into the kitchen.
He glances over his shoulder. “How?”
“You’d be worse at pretending you didn’t.”
“Fair.”
We fall into the dishwashing routine we’ve developed over the last few weeks. Chris washes. I dry. It started because he cooked one night and I automatically picked up a towel. Now neither of us discusses it.
“Jensen called this afternoon,” Chris says as he rinses a plate. “The Singapore deal closed.”
I dry the plate and slide it into the cabinet. “The one you’ve been working on forever?”
“Seven months.” He reaches for another. “Carla handled the final negotiation. I reviewed the terms afterward.”
My hand pauses on the cabinet door. “You let somebody else close your deal?”
“Her deal by that point.” Chris shrugs. “She’s better at that part than I am.”
I look at him.
He notices and turns off the faucet. “What?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit someone at Aldren Capital does part of your job better than you.”
“Several people do.” He hands me the next plate. “That’s why I pay them.”
A laugh slips out. “Okay. That sounds more like you.”
“Good. I was worried.”
We finish the dishes. I wipe down the counter while Chris hangs the towel over the oven handle. Then he walks to the chair where he left his jacket.
He reaches into the inside pocket. When he turns back, my rings are in his hand.
I stop wiping the counter.
Chris sets the engagement ring and wedding band on the wood between us. “They’re yours. They always were.”
I stare at them.
He’s obviously been carrying them since the hotel.
Chris steps back from the counter. “I’m not asking you to put them on. I should’ve given them back sooner.”
I set the cloth aside and pick up the rings. The metal is warm from his jacket. My thumb moves over the wedding band before I close both rings inside my fist. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I slide them into the front pocket of my jeans.
Chris’s gaze stays on my face instead of following my hand. He doesn’t ask if I’m going to wear them or whether taking them back means anything.
He turns toward the dish towel and straightens it on the oven handle.
For some reason, that gets me. “Chris?”
He looks over.
I cross the kitchen and kiss him.
His surprise lasts only a second. Then his hands settle at my waist, and he kisses me back.
I move closer.
When I pull away, he doesn’t chase me. His hands remain where they are while he waits.
“Come upstairs.”
Chris searches my face. “Lorna—”
I point at him. “Don’t ask.”
Recognition replaces whatever question he was about to finish. “I remember.”
“Good.”
I take his hand.
The bedroom is cool from the window I left cracked earlier. Chris closes the door behind us and stays near it while I walk to the foot of the bed.
He still waits for me to set the pace.
I pull my sweater over my head and toss it onto the chair. “You can come closer.”
That gets him moving.
Chris reaches me in two steps. His hands settle on my shoulders before he kisses me, slower than he did downstairs. I open his shirt while he pushes mine the rest of the way off, and the familiar shape of him beneath my hands sends heat through me.
We reach the bed still kissing. There’s no uncertainty about what I want tonight. Chris doesn’t make me explain it.
He kisses my neck, then my breasts, and works his way lower while I run my fingers through his hair. When his mouth settles between my thighs, I close my eyes and let myself have this.
He knows my body as well as he always has. His tongue moves over my clit in the slow rhythm that gets me there fastest, and I grip his hair. My hips lift before I can stop them.
“Chris.”
He keeps going.
The orgasm builds until my thighs tense around him. I hold him there through the last contraction before tugging him back up. “Come here.”
Chris kisses me and moves between my legs. He enters me slowly, giving me time to adjust before I wrap my legs around him.
His eyes close when he starts moving.
I cup his face. “Look at me.”
He opens them.
“Stay here.”
“I’m here.” His hand slides under my hip as he moves again.
This time, I keep looking at him. The rhythm builds between us without either of us rushing. I pull him closer when the second orgasm starts, and Chris kisses me through it before his own control breaks.
Afterward, we stay beneath the blankets with cold air slipping through the cracked window. Chris lies on his side behind me with one arm around my waist.
I rest my hand over his.
My jeans are on the floor beside the bed. The rings are still in the pocket. For tonight, I leave them there.
THE SMELL OF COFFEE wakes me sometime after seven. When I come downstairs, Chris is in the lodge kitchen in yesterday’s jeans and a clean T-shirt he must have retrieved from the guesthouse earlier. Two mugs wait beside the coffeemaker.
He slides one toward me. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
I take the mug and lean against the counter while he checks the time on his phone.
“I have an eight-thirty call.” Chris picks up his coffee. “I’m going back over to shower.”
I glance toward the stairs. “You could shower here.”
He stops. The expression on his face almost makes me laugh. “I didn’t invite you to move in,” I clarify.
“Understood.”
“I said you could shower.”
Chris sets his coffee back down. “Also understood.” He heads upstairs.
I take my mug to the kitchen table and sit where I can see the guesthouse through the window.
The rings are in the pocket of my robe now. I moved them before I came downstairs.
They’re mine again, but they’re still not on my finger. I need to be absolutely sure before wearing them again.