I held the empty tablet charger, wondering why Violet would leave it behind if she had taken the tablet with her.
Samantha Drake did not ask before she pulled out the metal chair opposite me and sat down.
The legs of the chair scraped against the tile floor of the cafe, a sharp sound that made the man at the next table look up from his newspaper. Samantha slid her leather handbag onto the table, barely missing my half-empty cup of decaf coffee. She rested her hands on the edge of the laminate surface, her long, pink acrylic nails tapping a fast, rhythmic pattern against the faux-wood finish.
“You look tired, Clara,” she said.
Her voice had that rapid, clipped cadence that always made me feel like I was standing on a train platform while the express rushed past. I did not answer her right away. I took a slow breath, keeping my hands in my lap so she would not see me twisting my mother’s gold wedding band around my ring finger. The baby gave a small, sudden kick against my ribs, a tiny reminder of why I had to keep my voice flat and even.
“I was not expecting to see you here, Samantha,” I said.
“Minneapolis is a small city when you are looking for someone,” she said, her nails continuing their relentless click against the table. “Gabriel is very busy with the firm’s restructuring today, so I volunteered to handle some of the outreach. We need to have a practical conversation.”
“If you want to discuss the business accounts, you should talk to Arthur Vance,” I said.
Samantha let out a short, sharp laugh that did not reach her eyes. She leaned forward, the scent of her expensive perfume cutting through the smell of toasted bagels and old coffee grounds.
“Arthur Vance is a relic who belongs in a strip mall, which is exactly where his office is,” she said. “We are talking about your future, Clara. Gabriel is moving forward, and the firm is reorganizing its portfolio. Some arrangements simply reach their expiration date.”
“Our marriage is not a corporate portfolio,” I said.
“It is an asset sheet,” Samantha said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “And right now, you are on the wrong side of the ledger. I would start making other plans if I were you.”
She stood up, grabbing her handbag in one fluid motion. She did not look back as she walked out into the noon crowd, leaving her words hanging over the cold coffee.
I sat there for five minutes before I could get my legs to work.
The garage smelled of cold engine oil and the dry, dusty scent of stored cardboard boxes. I waited by the workbench, my coat still zipped up to my chin, watching the automatic garage door slowly roll upward at exactly five o’clock. Gabriel’s sedan glided into the space, the headlights reflecting off the dusty windshield of my old Buick parked beside him.
He switched off the ignition and stepped out, carrying his leather briefcase. He stopped when he saw me standing near the recycling bins, his brow furrowing slightly before his face smoothed into that cool, patronizing mask I had known for seven years.
