He opened the door before I could use my key.
His face rearranged itself instantly into concern.
“There’s my girl.”
He pulled me into his arms.
The same arms that had held Rebecca less than twenty-four hours earlier.
I let them.
That was the hardest part.
He kissed my hair and whispered, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there.”
I looked over his shoulder toward the staircase.
“I know.”
He leaned back.
“How was the funeral?”
“Hard.”
He nodded with practiced tenderness.
“Your dad was a good man.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I walked past him with my suitcase.
For the next several days, Alexander became the husband I remembered from the beginning of our marriage.
Coffee appeared beside my bed in the morning.
He offered to cook dinner.
He asked whether I needed help sorting Dad’s affairs.
Most often, he asked questions that sounded casual.
“Did your father ever tell you what he planned to do with the buildings?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Has his lawyer called?”
“Not with anything final.”
“Do you know whether there was a will?”
“I’m sure I’ll find out.”
Every answer frustrated him a little more.
I began noticing the tiny changes in his face when I refused to give him information.
A tightening jaw.
A pause before a smile.
Fingers tapping against the table.
One night, he poured wine and sat across from me at dinner.
“We should talk about the future,” he said.
I set down my fork.
“Our future?”
“Of course.”
He smiled.
“With everything changing, maybe we should meet with someone about investments.
Whatever you inherit, we can make it work for us.”
There it was.
Us.
The word he had not used upstairs with Rebecca.
I said, “Nothing has been distributed.”
“I know.
I’m just thinking ahead.”
“You always do.”
His eyes narrowed for half a second.
Then he smiled again.
Two nights later, I heard him whispering on the back patio.
I did not need to stand close enough to hear every word.
I already knew who occupied his secret life.
But this time he sounded irritated.
“Just be patient,” he said.
“These estates take time.”
