I wanted him in his glass tower in Manhattan, surrounded by polished concrete and awards and assistants who called him Mr. Callaway in voices sharpened by respect. I wanted the envelope waiting on his desk when he came out of an investor meeting. I wanted the silence of his office to do part of the work for me.
Instead, because he suddenly cleared his schedule and stayed home that Thursday morning with suspicious, over-bright energy, the courier came to the house.
I was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
The kettle had just started ticking toward a boil. Rain tapped against the back windows. I remember the exact shape of the light on the marble countertop and the fact that there were three oranges in the fruit bowl because I had thrown the fourth one away the day before when I found mold near the stem.
Nathan crossed the foyer in sock feet and opened the door.
There was a brief exchange. A signature. The soft scrape of a clipboard.
Then he came back into the kitchen holding a cream-colored envelope.
“Something from a law office,” he said, almost amused. “Did you order a lawsuit?”
I didn’t answer.
He looked down, read the return address, and everything about his face changed.