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Her statement stops me for a second, then the truth of it penetrates me. "You may be right."
"So, phone sex. Yay or nay?"
"In a minute." I have another matter I want to discuss with her now. "Emery, I noticed you transferred money into our bank account."
"Closed out my account in America."
"You're meant to spend money, not add it. All you've paid for is petrol."
"And the wedding dress. That's all I've needed. Had to buy gas when I drove into town. If and when I need something else, I'll tap into our account."
Though I try for several minutes to convince my wife to spend our money, she attempts to rationalize her frugality as "being a good wife." I'm sure she still feels uncomfortable taking money from our joint account, and I won't talk her out of that over the phone.
So I concede the argument. For now.
*****
After a long afternoon of listening to boring presentations about boring legal rubbish, I return to my hotel suite and order dinner. I used to love the law, but now all I can think about is my wife. Who cares about revolutionary new techniques for drafting contracts? It's not revolutionary, anyway. A contract is a contract, and I don't care about the opinions of a thirty-year-old "whiz kid" who thinks he's smarter than everyone else.
My meal consists of pancakes with maple syrup and whipped cream. I couldn't get praline pancakes here. Aye, I'm eating breakfast for dinner because it reminds me of my wife. Maybe I'll take Emery back to New Orleans, just so we can feed each other those pancakes while she sits on my lap in a suite overlooking the city.
A memory rushes through my mind, of Emery racing out of the house to kiss me goodbye, despite the fact we both know I was running away from her, not attending an important conference. Every time I hurt her, she forgives me, even if all I do is apologize. She can't keep excusing my behavior. Eventually, she will get tired of it—of me.
My mobile rings.
I swipe it off the table and see who's calling. "Emery, I was going to ring you in a bit."
"Yeah, well, something's happened," she says. "Trouble on the home front."
"What's happened?" The unsteadiness in her voice might not be noticeable to anyone else, but I heard it. And my tone sharpens into a knife's edge. "Are you all right?"
"Fine, physically." Her voice hitches and quivers. "This is all my fault. I'm so sorry, Rory. I wish—God, it's all my fault."
"Emery, whatever it is, I'm sure it was not your fault. Tell me, please."
"Graham, he published a story. About us." A wee sob hiccups out of her, and she sniffles. "About me. Everyone will see it, the things he said. It's not true, but that doesn't matter because he—"
"Hush, love. It's not as bad as it seems."
She sniffles again, then blows her nose.
Graham Oliver, that bastard, will have his reckoning—at my hand.
"I'm coming home," I say. "Immediately."
"No, please, I don't want to ruin your vacation from me. There's nothing you can do. I thought you should know, that's all."
Even I'm not enough of a bod ceann to leave my wife to deal with Graham's bollocks on her own. I should never have left her.
"There's nothing you can do," she repeats, sounding even more miserable.
My voice mutates into a growl. "There bloody well is."
"Rory—"
"I am coming home." While cradling the mobile on my shoulder, I hurry to gather my things and shove them into my suitcase. "I'll call when we're in the air."
"Okay," she says, her voice so weak I almost can't hear it.
