Chapter 6: The Second Envelope
Darius came home at six-thirty.
Vanessa had made dinner.
Not because she felt like it — because she needed something to do with her hands.
The table was set.
The food was warm.
She had even opened a bottle of wine, though she hadn't poured any.
He sat down.
Looked at the table.
Looked at her.
"How was the meeting?" she asked.
"Long." He picked up his fork.
Set it down.
"Mr.
Reed was direct.
He addressed what happened at the event on Saturday.
He said it would not affect professional relationships within the company, and that he expected the same standard of conduct from all staff going forward." A pause.
"He looked at me once when he said it.
Only once."
Vanessa sat down across from him.
"I'm losing the boutique."
Darius said nothing.
"The lease termination is lawful.
My lawyer confirmed it.
I have thirty days."
He picked up his fork again.
This time he used it.
"What do you want to do?"
"My lawyer says the only option is to approach Marcus directly.
Request a new lease."
Darius chewed.
Swallowed.
"And?"
"And I don't know if he'll agree to see me."
"He will," Darius said.
She looked up.
"How do you know?"
"Because he already sent you something." He reached into his jacket pocket — the same quiet, unhurried gesture she had watched Marcus make on the terrace two nights ago — and placed a small envelope on the table between them.
"Patrick gave it to me after the meeting.
Said Mr.
Reed asked him to pass it along."
Vanessa stared at it.
Her name on the front.
The same clean handwriting.
"That's the second one," she said.
"I know."
She didn't reach for it immediately.
She looked at her husband across the table — at the careful way he was holding himself together, at the exhaustion behind his eyes, at the particular stillness of a man who had spent two hours sitting in a meeting room absorbing the consequences of someone else's choices.
"Darius," she said.
"I'm sorry."
He looked at her.
Not with anger.
With something more difficult than anger.
"Open the envelope," he said.
She picked it up.
Inside was a single card — not a document this time.
A card, the kind used for formal correspondence.
Four lines, handwritten.
*Vanessa.
If you want to discuss the property, I am available Thursday at 10 a.m.
The address is on the back.
Come alone.
— M.R.*
She turned it over.
An office address in the financial district.
A floor number.
"He's giving me a meeting," she said.
"He's giving you one meeting," Darius said.
"There's a difference."
She set the card down on the table beside her untouched wine glass.
"What do I say to him?"
Darius was quiet for a moment.
Outside, a car passed on the street.
The refrigerator hummed.
The ordinary sounds of a house that did not know it was holding its breath.
"The truth," Darius said finally.
"For once, Vanessa.
Just the truth."
She looked at him.
He had gone back to his food.
He wasn't looking at her anymore.
She picked up the card again.
Studied the handwriting.
Thought about a man who had stood on a terrace with champagne soaking through his shirt, and had not raised his voice, and had not made a scene, and had simply placed an envelope on a table and walked away.
May you like
She thought about what kind of person did that.
She was beginning to understand that she had never really known.
