The Husband's Gift

Every time the kitchen door swung open, I expected the police. Or a bank auditor. Instead, I got Mark.

He walked into the kitchen at 6:30 PM, the smell of rain and cedar following him. In his left hand was a vibrant bouquet of peonies—my favorite. In his right, he carried a heavy grocery bag. He looked like the hero of a mid-life romance novel, the kind of man my neighbors envied.

"Surprise," he said, setting the flowers on the island. He didn't wait for a greeting. He pulled me into a long, firm hug.

My body was a board. I could feel the cold metal of the silver hard drive inside my tote bag, hanging heavy on my shoulder. One wrong move, one brush against my side, and he would feel the rectangular weight of the evidence I’d stolen back from his sister.

"Mark, what’s all this?" I asked, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger.

"You've been so stressed, El," he murmured against my hair. "I can feel it. The way you're working through the night, the way you're checking the servers... it’s taking a toll. I wanted to bring some life back into this house."

He pulled back, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones. His eyes were so blue, so sincere. It was the same gaze he’d used when he told me Jim was 'losing it' about the Toledo site. It was the gaze of a man who believed his own lies.

"I’m fine," I said, stepping toward the sink to find a vase. I needed distance. I needed a barrier.

"You're not fine. Mike from the bank called me this afternoon."

I nearly dropped the vase. The glass clinked sharply against the porcelain sink. "He called you?"

"He said the operating float was dangerously low. He seemed panicked." Mark walked over, leaning his hip against the counter. He reached into the grocery bag and pulled out a bottle of expensive Sancerre. "But I checked the portal an hour ago, and the balance had recovered. A huge receivable came in?"

"Yes," I said, my back to him. "A recovery from an old account."

"Good." He popped the cork, the sound echoing like a small gunshot. "Because Mike was talking about bank covenants and calling the loan. I told him he was being dramatic."

He poured two glasses, the pale wine shimmering.

"I tell you what," Mark said, sliding a glass toward me. "I’ll handle the bank meeting next Tuesday. I already told Mike I’d be the one coming in. You stay home. Rest. Take a spa day."

The wine in my glass shivered. He didn't want me to rest. He wanted to sit across from Mike Miller and explain away the siphoned millions before I could show Mike the 'Isabella Holdings' trail. He wanted to intercept the hard-copy statements before I could see the wire IDs.

"I can handle Mike," I said.

"El. Stop." He walked around the island, pinning me between the counter and his body. He took the vase from my hands and set it down. "I’m not asking. I’m taking care of you. You're spiraling, babe. Let me lead for a while."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. The bouquet of peonies sat between us, their sweet, heavy scent suddenly cloying, like a funeral.

"You look tired, El. Let me take care of you."