Smile For The Ferry

"Smile for the ferry, Tess."

Trevor said it from the landing above me, in the terminal stairwell, where the noise of the reception came through the door in dull pieces. He had followed me. He stopped two steps up, so I had to look at him.

I held up the stapled page. "What is Dockside Ventures?"

"Governance housekeeping." He plucked the page from my fingers, glanced at it, and handed it back. "Neil handles the paper. You've never read a board paper in your life. That's what has always made this easy."

Easy. He heard it a second after I did.

"I didn't sign that."

"Of course you did. Or you would have, if you read." He smoothed his tie, though he wasn't wearing one. "Kaylee's company is a brand vehicle. It's nothing to do with us."

Us. He said it in the voice of a man reading out a word he had put away.

I thought about Thursday night. I had come down to the kitchen for water at midnight and found the old family tablet lit up in the junk drawer, still linked to Trevor's account from years ago. It had a new voice note on it, sent at 11:40 to a number I knew. I played it once, with the volume down. Then I put the tablet back exactly as I had found it.

I told no one. I hadn't decided what it was yet.

But I knew this about my husband: he cannot think without talking. In ten years I have heard him rehearse a merger to a bathroom mirror and negotiate a loan with the dishwasher. He does not keep secrets. He dictates them, out loud, to whatever is listening.

"I need you to be good for two more hours," he said. "Then you can go home and put your feet up. Kaylee's people have the press at four. I don't want a photo of you close to tears."

"I'm not close to tears."

I was very calm.

That seemed to worry him more. He held out his hand.

"Give me your phone."

"Why?"

"There's a bad rumor about the company going around, and I want it off your screen before some reporter sees it. Just until tonight."

Behind the door, a band began playing something with a lot of brass. I looked at his open palm, ten years of habit sitting in my hands.

I placed the phone in it. A man who thinks he has taken your phone stops watching your hands. He pocketed it and went down the stairs whistling.

I stood there and counted every step he took, until I could no longer hear him.