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I drove home without music. Charlotte’s skyline rose ahead of me, polished and golden in the late afternoon sun. The city looked expensive, beautiful, and completely indifferent.
Our house sat in Myers Park behind black iron gates and sculpted hedges Grant called “necessary privacy.” I had chosen the pale stone exterior, brass fixtures, wide-plank floors, linen curtains, paintings, flowers, and candles.
I had softened his cold taste into something people mistook for warmth.
I used to believe a home was something two people built together.
But when I stepped inside, the silence greeted me like a witness.
“Mrs. Whitmore?” Rosa called from the kitchen.
Our housekeeper appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel. She had worked for us for eleven years and had seen more of my marriage than most people ever would.
“Will Dr. Whitmore be home for dinner?”
I placed my purse on the console table.
“No,” I said. “He has a hospital meeting.”
The lie came easily because it had come from him so many times.
Rosa watched me carefully. “Should I prepare something light for you?”
“No. Take the evening off.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “I have work to do.”
After she left, I stood beneath the chandelier Grant had once called excessive until several donors praised it. After that, he began calling it “one of our best design choices.”
Our.
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