I spent much of the prior nine days at a resort outside Charleston with Tessa Vaughn, the woman I was sleeping with for almost a year.
Corinne thought I was inspecting a luxury development and meeting potential investors.
Technically, I did both.
The inspection had taken ninety minutes.
The investor lunch lasted two hours.
Everything after that had belonged to Tessa.
Oceanfront dinners.
Champagne.
A private villa.
A bracelet that cost more than most people earned in a month.
Long afternoons behind locked doors while my wife recovered from giving birth to my son.
On the drive home, I had rehearsed the story I planned to tell.
The project was complicated.
The investors were demanding.
Cell service had been terrible.
I was sorry I missed Owen’s pediatric appointment.
I would make it up to her.
The roses were supposed to help.
They had helped before.
But the house was too quiet.
