I walked back to my desk. I pulled an empty cardboard box from under the shelf and began filling it.
My favorite fountain pens went in first. Then my notebooks, my legal codes, and my small brass desk lamp.
Clicking heels echoed down the carpeted hallway.
Ember stopped at the assistant’s counter right outside my cubicle. She wore a beige silk blouse and tailored trousers. On her left hand, a thin gold band caught the overhead fluorescent light. She made a show of picking up Kingsley’s leather desk calendar. She flipped a page and tapped the corner with a manicured nail.
"I'm reorganizing his schedule," Ember said, her voice dripping with sugar. "He works far too much."
I didn't stop packing.
She leaned on the counter and tilted her head. Her smile was small, sharp, and entirely fake. "It must be so hard to let go, Azalea. After all this time."
I tucked my files into the box. I didn't look up at her.
"Enjoy the view from here," I said mildly.
I picked up my potted cactus with one hand. I tucked the cardboard box against my hip with the other. Without another word, I walked straight past her toward the elevators. The doors slid open with a soft chime. I stepped inside and hit the button for the lobby. When the doors slid shut, Ember was still standing there by the counter, her mouth slightly open.
***
Down on the street, the Manhattan air was sharp and biting.
A sleek blue sedan pulled up to the curb. The passenger door pushed open from the inside.
Serena was behind the wheel. She wore dark sunglasses, her hair tied in a loose knot. Resting on the passenger seat was a bottle of expensive red wine and a brown paper bag from my favorite bakery.
She didn't ask what Kingsley said. She didn't ask why I was holding a box.
"Get in," she said simply.
I set the box and the cactus on the floorboard and slid into the seat. Serena shifted into drive and pulled cleanly into traffic.
We crawled through midtown gridlock, heading north toward the bridge. The city skyline towered behind us, cold steel and grey stone.
At a red light near the highway ramp, Serena reached over. She took my hand and squeezed it once, tight and steady.
I looked out the passenger window, watching the river churn below the girders.
"I should have done it at sixty," I said softly. My thumb traced the metal rim of my wristwatch.
Serena kept her eyes on the road ahead. "You did it at ninety-nine," she said. Her voice didn't waver. "That's still you."
***
By five that evening, the city was far behind us.
The family beach house in Cape Cod sat on a low, sandy dune. It was an old, weathered place with white clapboard siding and a wide wooden porch facing the open Atlantic. The wind out here smelled of cold salt and crushed shells.
A medical transport had brought my mother up earlier that afternoon.
Caspian was already there.
He had taken off his dark suit jacket. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He didn't make a fuss, and he didn't announce what he was doing. He just worked.
He had carried the heavy portable oxygen tanks inside. He positioned the monitors against the wall in the quiet downstairs bedroom, hiding the black cords behind a low dresser so they wouldn't look frightening. He had already gone to the local market in town. The fridge was packed with fresh soup, soft fruit, and the exact dark roast coffee beans I brewed every morning.
In the living room, he had pushed my mother’s favorite wicker armchair right next to the bay window. He angled it so she could look out at the grey waves without turning her head. Over the back of it, he had folded a warm wool throw.
Marianna sat in the chair, wrapped in a thick knitted sweater. She was frail, her breathing shallow. She said nothing as Caspian moved through the house, checking the heat vents and making sure the back door was shut tight against the draft. She simply watched him with her dark, quiet eyes.
When the sun dropped below the water, the sky turned a deep, bruised purple.
I went to the small kitchen, boiled water, and made a cup of hot chamomile tea. I carried the mug into the living room and knelt beside my mother's chair.
"Here, Mom," I said gently.
She didn't take the mug. Instead, her thin, papery fingers reached out and wrapped around my wrist. Her grip was surprisingly firm.
She looked past me toward the porch doors. Outside on the deck, Caspian was standing in the cold dusk, his hands resting on the railing, quietly giving us space.
My mother looked down at me. A faint, peaceful smile softened the lines of her face.
"He has kind eyes," she whispered.
