Page 49 of Blind Prophet

She’s decided. She doesn’t want to spend time with me. Wants me to agree to sign papers, and that’s the end of it. Right. Makes sense.

“All right. It’s a thirty- or forty-minute trip to Denver. I’ll have the helicopter readied and… How long do you need to get ready?”

“Twenty—” My right eye involuntarily squints. “Thirty,” she amends.

“Do you want eggs?”

She looks at me like I’m a stranger.

“I can still scramble eggs.”

I sound defensive. Am I?

I’d love a Vicodin to end this discomfort in my chest, but I won’t take any until I land in Denver. At least there’s no sign of the migraine.

“I’m really…” Our gazes connect across the kitchen counter. Her thumb strokes the ceramic edge of her coffee mug in a mesmerizing movement. “I don’t eat early in the morning. I’ll grab something later.”

“We could get breakfast in Denver. I know several places?—”

“Maybe.”

Right. Does a yes depend on how I behave in transit?

“Let’s see what time it is,” she clarifies.

“We might need reservations,” I say, although it’s Friday morning.

“We don’t need to go fancy.”

I bite back my disdain for that word. Toward the end, she didn’t want to leave our home. She deemed every dining establishment too fancy. I didn’t pick high-end locations to impress others, as she assumed. I needed locations that could ensure privacy. A small hole-in-the-wall diner isn’t set up to block unwanted media attention. I tried explaining it to her, but it eventually became a silent argument, one we carried on in our heads and communicated with cold looks and physical distance.

A light on her phone flashes. She flips it to read the incoming text.

Luke:

When will?—

She clutches the phone and hurries down the hall before I can finish reading the message.Luke.

She said she wasn’t dating anyone. But my gut says he’s inquiring about her flight home. He’s probably picking her up from the airport.

Is he her reason for showing up? Does she think I’m less likely to sign the divorce agreement if I believe she’s got someone else in her life?

I check news alerts while drinking fresh coffee and eating another slice of toast. Bloomberg highlights Zenith’s latest orbital deployment, and there’s chatter about Bedrock’s potential acquisition in Singapore. Asian and European markets are up, and US futures are looking stable. I should care more—the Asian markets are particularly volatile this quarter—but with Caroline here, the satellite trajectories and market indicators blur together.

Dad would say I’m getting soft, not being on three conference calls by now. Business never sleeps—there’s always another deal to be made, another data stream to monitor. But for once, business can wait.

I force myself to finish the toast. I’m not hungry, but I’m physically weak, and experience taught me that my body responds poorly when I ignore it.

When I descend the stairs after showering, she’s dressed, suitcase at her side, phone in hand. Her belted white cotton shirt sits above tapered black slacks that fall to yesterday’s professional black heels. Her signature straight, long blonde hair reflects the light, emphasizing her natural elegance. A light pink shade adorns her lips and cheeks, but when she lifts those sky blue eyes, my periphery dims as she becomes everything.

“You look beautiful,” I say, scratching my neck.

I check my phone, as much out of habit as to refocus. A text awaits. The helicopter is ready.

“Would you like a coffee to go?” I open a cabinet door, not waiting for her reply, using the same decisive efficiency I use when running board meetings, but here, it feels hollow. Strange how negotiating contracts feels easier than making coffee for my wife. Ex-wife.

I could tell her about the new communications satellite array or the emerging markets we’re targeting. Instead, I’m counting the minutes until she asks for the divorce papers again. Some things even an Oxford education doesn’t prepare you for.

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