“Good.” He pulled the folder toward him. “At least you know your place.”
Vanessa finally looked up from her phone and offered a small, theatrical clap. “Well, that was almost dramatic.” She looked at Ethan and smiled, and the smile contained blueprints—renovation plans and dinner party guest lists and the particular claim of someone who has been waiting a long time to occupy a space and is already mentally moving the furniture.
Emily said nothing. She stood, picked up her bag, looped the strap over her shoulder, and smoothed the front of her sweater once, a habitual gesture. She glanced around the conference room—the rain still streaking the windows, the untouched coffee carafe, the mahogany table with its halo of expensive misery—and felt none of the things she had expected to feel. The grief was not here. It had already happened, she realized. It had happened quietly, over months, in small increments, the way the tide goes out—so gradually you don’t notice until you look down and find yourself standing on bare, exposed sand with the water far away.
She was turning toward the door when, behind her, a chair scraped.