Page 9 of Graciously His

This email is quick and to the point:

Grace,

Tell me more about the horseshoe design you sent a few years back; specifically, what is the rooftop angle relative to the placement of the solar panels? I want to hear more about that—and soon. I know Professor Eagan will be interested, too. Let me know.

Architecture aside, what colours have you been recording in that journal of yours? You had a streak of red and orange last month. Have you nailed down the food that caused it? I know you don’t want to cut gluten completely, but I suspect that’s at the root of those bad days. Also, let me know when you need me to order new filters for your HVAC. Does Nick still turn it off every night before bed? Hopefully not.

As for my side of things: before you ask—no, I’m not seeing anyone. And no, I’m not lonely. I have more than enough to occupy my time without having to deal with a girlfriend. So you can stop asking sidelong questions about Jessica. That’s been over for years.

The improved version of our wallet app is dropping today, so I’ll be tangled up in whatever messes come out of that for at least a few weeks. Tell Nick not to stress about it, but don’t tell him it comes from me.

You should come to the North Island sometime, Grace. I have things to show you up here. And things to say to you, right up close.

Nate

I stare at the last three sentences; they’re the same every time Nate sends me an email, as if he just copy-pastes them. He started asking me to go up to the big patch of land he bought north of Auckland ages ago. It includes acres of forest, a dozen paddocks, and an entire beach cove. When Nate first bought it, he invited us to build a house up there, too. More than enough land, he’d said, for everyone. But he wouldn’t hear of letting Mother come. He said so to Nick, then to me, and finally to Mother’s face.

That was the last time I saw him.

Five years ago.

Now he reiterates the invitation weekly. It’s probably wrong to keep secrets from my husband, but I need Nate. He’s the only one who wants me to finish my degree. It was Nate who got me back in touch with my university professor; he made a sizable enough donation to the University of Otago that the prof invited him to a thank-you dinner. Nate brought my name up and, before I knew it, Professor Eagan was offering to supervise a final project that would finish out my degree. Hopefully by the time I’m done I’ll have figured out how to tell Mother and Nick about all of it. Maybe over Christmas or New Year’s. Or maybe I’ll invite them to the graduation as a surprise. Maybe Nate will come down for it if I invite him.

I shake that thought away. It’s not a good idea for Nate and Mother to be in a room together. Mother claims that Nate’s attitude towards me makes her uncomfortable, and Nate never hides his contempt for anyone.

I take a sip of coffee, check the time (I should have at least another half-hour or so), then type an answer:

Dear Nate,

Horseshoe Manor! You know, I really love that one. Can you miss a house you’ve never built, let alone been to before? I do. I’ve always wanted to live in a place that unfolds like an accordion. Don’t ask why; it’s as weirdly specific as your concern about solar panels. Silly boy, there are industry standards for panels that Professor Eagan will know all about, so I didn’t need to include them in the design.

I can already picture you frowning, so I’ll attach a document specifying the angle you asked for.

Colour-wise, today’s orange all the way. Don’t ask why, okay? Suffice it to say it’s started off lonely and painful and it’ll probably end that way. I’m doing my best with Mother, and she’s doing her best, too. And the doctors say not to cut gluten because Coeliac was ruled out years ago.

I’m excited to hear about the improved wallet—tell me more! Nick never shares much about your products, so I feel like I’m always a step behind what you two are up to. I get that this will keep you busy, Nate, but make sure you take some time for other aspects of life.

Hopefully I’ll see you soon. Maybe—it’s a big maybe, mind you—for my graduation at the end of the year?

Send me some more pictures of Shep with your next email. Honestly, who forgets to include mandatory doggy pics? Do better!

Love,

Grace

I hit send before I can agonise about anything I’ve typed. Nick should be back soon, and I need to tidy my notifications so he doesn’t see the long-running email chain with his brother.

Once that’s done, I pull up Autodesk, another contribution of Nate’s. There’s no way I could afford the programme without his help. I dive into my latest design, which will be a multi-generational build of sustainable tiny homes that are expandable. It’s my most challenging project to date, and I’ve been snatching seconds, minutes, and hours everywhere I can to work on it without Nick or Mother noticing.

Hours pass and my stomach has started to rumble when I realise that my phone hasn’t buzzed with a message from Nick, and that he’s been out for a very long time for a Saturday-morning run. I send him a quick text then shut down Autodesk. Even if Nick isn’t back, Mother must be by now, and she might know where he’s gone. I decide to go next door instead of inviting her here. She has a tendency to overstay.

I brace myself as I always do before seeing Mother’s place. It feels like every visit sees a new patch of mould blooming on another exterior wall, another set of floorboards rotting through. I unlock the chain and—

Almost walk into Mother herself. She’s on my front step, her hand already poised to unlock the door with her key. Two police officers flank her: a seasoned veteran with warm, dark eyes and a serious expression, and a much younger man who shifts from foot to foot. I’m about to ask what is going on when she starts in on me.

“Why was the chain on, Graciously?”

“Is everything okay, Mother? Where’s Nick?”