Chapter 36
NOAH
For three days, I stayed upstairs.
I did not argue.
That worried everyone.
Maeve came Wednesday and declared my restraint medically suspicious. A cognitive rehabilitation therapist arrived Thursday with sequencing exercises and left after I fell asleep halfway through one involving colored blocks.
I slept.
Ate.
Walked through the apartment.
Held Reid whenever he came upstairs.
The need for contact embarrassed me until I decided embarrassment could wait.
Each time the stairwell door opened, my body loosened.
Each time Reid left, I reminded myself where he was.
Downstairs.
In the yard.
Coming back.
By Friday, I could remain awake through breakfast and lunch without feeling as though someone had filled my skull with wet sand.
I went downstairs for the interviews.
Reid objected.
“I’m not working.”
“You’re standing in the workshop.”
“Sitting soon.”
“You need quiet.”
“I need to see the person who will answer our phones.”
“Our?”
He caught the word.
“Yes.”
His face softened enough that I knew I had won.
The first candidate arrived at nine.
He wore a polished suit and spoke about efficiency as if people were faulty equipment. Within ten minutes, he suggested eliminating “redundant labor positions” and outsourcing technical documentation.
Caleb heard from the other side of the glass and made a throat-cutting gesture.
Reid ended the interview politely.
The second candidate was younger, charming, and absolutely wrong.
His name was Mason.
He had worked at a yacht brokerage and knew enough marine terminology to survive the first questions. Then I crossed the office doorway carrying coffee.
Mason stopped speaking.
His gaze traveled over me.
Not subtle.
“Who’s this?”
Reid’s face became blank in the dangerous way.
“Noah Bennett.”
“Technician?”
“Partner.”
Mason smiled at me.
“Business partner?”
Reid leaned back.
“My partner.”
Understanding arrived.
It did not improve Mason’s judgment.
He looked at the scar near my temple, then at the walking pole.
“You’re the guy from the paper.”
“I am.”
“You photograph well.”
Reid’s jaw tightened.
I took a sip of coffee.
“Thank you.”
Mason turned back to the desk.
“Does he work full-time?”
“No,” Reid said.
“Lucky. Nice arrangement.”
The interview ended two minutes later.
Mason left looking confused about why his charm had failed.
Caleb came into the office laughing.
“Your face.”
Reid glared.
“What face?”
“The one that said you were calculating whether the harbor was deep enough to hide him.”
“He asked whether Noah worked.”
“He also undressed him with his eyes.”
I leaned against the filing cabinet.
“That sounds dramatic.”
Owen appeared in the doorway.
“He called Noah a nice arrangement.”
Reid pointed toward him.
“Exactly.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I am not.”
All three of us looked at him.
He folded his arms.
“I was evaluating inappropriate professional behavior.”
Caleb laughed harder.
I smiled.
The expression made Reid look at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Noah.”
“You’re cute when you’re possessive.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Cute.”
“Not when you make decisions for me.”
“I didn’t.”
“No. You made a decision for the yard because he was an idiot.”
“Yes.”
“But the face was for me.”
Reid looked toward Caleb and Owen.
“Leave.”
They did not.
The third candidate saved him.
Marian Holt entered the workshop wearing dark pants, weatherproof boots, and a red wool coat. She was in her early fifties, with cropped brown hair and the calm gaze of someone who had spent decades dealing with difficult customers.
Before introducing herself, she looked at the charging unit on the near bench.
“Victron?”
Owen nodded.
“Older model.”
“Reliable until someone installs it where seawater can reach the ventilation slots.”
Owen smiled.
Reid stood.
“Marian Holt?”
“Yes.”
They shook hands.
She looked at me.
“Noah Bennett.”
“Yes.”
“I read the profile.”
My shoulders tensed.
She continued.
“My husband had a stroke six years ago. Journalists made him sound inspirational for learning to button a shirt.”
The tension eased.
“He hated it.”
“So did I.”
“Good.”
She entered the office.
Her interview lasted forty minutes.
Marian had managed operations for a marina north of Astoria, then worked for a marine-parts distributor until the company moved its regional office inland.
She understood booking systems, supplier accounts, payroll preparation, warranty claims, inventory, and the difference between customers who needed reassurance and customers who needed to be told no.
“What happens when someone arrives demanding access to an employee?” Reid asked.
Marian’s gaze shifted briefly toward me.
“Are they on the approved contact list?”
“No.”
“Then they remain outside.”
“What if they say they’re family?”
“Family is not a security credential.”
I liked her immediately.
“What if Reid argues with a supplier over a price he approved two weeks earlier?” Owen called from outside.
Marian did not look toward him.
“I document the first approval and charge a consultation fee for the second argument.”
Owen grinned.
Reid tried not to.
She asked intelligent questions.
Hours.
Authority.
Accounting software.
Whether she could reorganize the office.
Reid looked around at the stacks of paper and mismatched storage boxes.
“Yes.”
“Entirely?”
His confidence wavered.
“Within reason.”
“I’ll decide reason after seeing the filing system.”
Caleb coughed to hide a laugh.
By the time Marian left, everyone knew.
“She’s terrifying,” Owen said.
“Perfect,” Reid replied.
I ordered lunch while Reid contacted the agency.
The task required one phone call and three clarifications. By the end, my words had begun to slow.
I did not pretend otherwise.
“Done,” I said. “Going upstairs.”
Reid looked at me.
“Need help?”
“No.”
He waited.
I reconsidered.
“Walk me to the stairs.”
His expression remained neutral, but warmth softened his eyes.
“Of course.”
At the landing, he kissed my forehead.
“I’ll bring food.”
“I ordered enough to feed the harbor.”
“I heard.”
I slept for almost four hours.
When I woke, afternoon light had moved across the bedroom wall. Marlowe lay along my legs, warm and heavy.
My phone showed five missed calls from an unknown number and three messages.
The first began:
I am still your mother whether you like it or not.
I did not open the others.
My heart began beating too fast.
Every detail in the room sharpened.
Curtain edge.
Green lamp.
Marlowe’s breathing.
Phone.
Five calls.
Diane’s voice returning through written words.
I put the phone face down.
Then picked it up again.
Stress protocol.
Name the signs.
Headache rising.
Hands cold.
Thought narrowing.
Choices becoming impossible.
I called Reid.
He answered on the first ring.
“What happened?”
“My phone.”
“I’m coming.”
He was beside the bed less than a minute later.
I held out the phone.
“Her.”
He did not touch it immediately.
“Do you want me to read?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to know what they say?”
“No.”
He took the phone.
His jaw tightened as he read, but his voice remained calm.
“She wants you to call. She says the conversation was unfair. She says you misunderstood her financial situation.”
“Anything threatening?”
“No.”
“Any apology?”
“No.”
That hurt despite everything.
“Take screenshots.”
“I will.”
“Then block the number.”
“It may be a temporary number.”
“Block it anyway.”
He sat beside me and captured the call log and messages.
“Done.”
I watched the screen as he opened the contact settings.
A strange grief rose inside me.
Not for the woman in the break room.
For every version of a mother I had once invented to survive her.
“Wait.”
Reid stopped.
“Do you want to answer?”
“No.”
I took the phone.
My fingers shook as I opened a blank message.
Reid stayed silent.
I typed slowly.
Do not contact me again. Do not come to my home or workplace. Any further attempts will be documented. I will decide if I ever want communication. You do not get to decide for me.
I read it twice.
“Should I mention money?”
“No,” Reid said. “This is not a negotiation.”
I sent it.
Then blocked the number.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
“Did I do the right thing?”
Reid took my hand.
“You did what you chose.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only one that matters.”
I looked at him.
“Would you have blocked her?”
“Yes.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Would you have sent the message?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I would have written something less useful and more illegal.”
A laugh escaped me.
The tension eased enough for me to breathe.
Reid moved closer.
“Head?”
“Two.”
“Do you need darkness?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“Yes.”
He brought it.
I drank.
Marlowe shifted and put his chin on my thigh.
“My mother doesn’t love me.”
The sentence arrived without warning.
Reid sat again.
“I don’t know what she feels.”
“She came for money.”
“Yes.”
“She heard I nearly died and stayed home.”
“Yes.”
“She looked at me like the scar was inconvenient.”
He touched my hand.
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t love me in any way that is safe.”
Reid’s eyes softened.
“No.”
The agreement hurt.
It also gave the wound a shape I could understand.
“I kept thinking maybe she was afraid,” I said. “Maybe Leah told her not to come. Maybe she didn’t know how serious it was.”
“You wanted a reason that hurt less.”
“Yes.”
He lifted my hand to his mouth.
“I’m sorry.”
“She disowned me first.”
His thumb moved across my knuckles.
“That doesn’t make choosing distance painless.”
“No.”
I leaned against him.
His arm came around me.
“But I have Leah,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Emma and Clara.”
“Yes.”
“Caleb. Owen.”
“Marlowe.”
The dog thumped his tail once.
“Maeve. Priya. Dr. Whitcomb, even when she refuses coffee.”
“Cruel but reliable.”
“Elias and Miriam.”
“Yes.”
I turned my face toward Reid.
“And you.”
“Me.”
“That’s my family.”
His hand covered the back of my neck.
“Chosen.”
“I chose well.”
“You did.”
We stayed that way until my pulse settled.
Then I remembered the envelope on the bedside table.
Not an envelope.
A notification.
The clinic portal icon showed a new message.
My stomach tightened.
“Results.”
Reid followed my gaze.
“Do you want me to open them?”
“Yes.”
He took my phone again.
The secure page loaded slowly enough to become torture.
He read.