Today Is a Good Day to File for Divorce

At 8:12 on Tuesday morning, I found $84,600 missing from the account we used to pay our wedding vendors. I was sitting at the worktable in the back of Bell & Hart Events, surrounded by place cards for a June wedding, when I noticed the balance didn't match my spreadsheet. The difference was too large to be a processing delay and too precise to be a typo. I clicked through the transactions again. On Monday afternoon, our company checking account had sent $84,600 to a business called Larkspur House Holdings. I knew that name. Caleb's younger sister, Wren, had bought Larkspur House eighteen months earlier: a weather-beaten inn above the harbor in Greyhaven, the fictional sort of coastal town people described as charming when they didn't have to pay to repair its salt-eaten windows. I called Caleb. He answered on the fourth ring. "Morning, Nor." "What is Larkspur House Holdings?" A pause. Not long, but long enough for my stomach to draw tight. "It's Wren's company." "I know whose company it is. Why did our account send it eighty-four thousand dollars?" "I was going to talk to you." "When?" "Today. I've been dealing with the bank and the plumber and—" "Caleb." He exhaled. I could picture him in the office above the ballroom, one hand at the back of his neck, trying to make a problem smaller by speaking softly. "The inn had an emergency. The boiler failed, and the bank wouldn't release the renovation loan until she cleared an old lien. It's a bridge. She'll pay us back." "Our clients paid us that money." "They paid us deposits. The money's still there." "It's not there." "It's a temporary transfer." "From the account we use to pay their caterers and florists." "I know what the account is for." The first small, frightened part of me wanted to believe him because believing him would mean I could go on making place cards. I had known that part since I was eight, when my mother stood between my younger brother, Owen, and me at our kitchen table and promised she would never love one of us more. The promise arrived after Owen broke my ceramic horse. Mom held it together with glue while Dad told me not to make a scene. They bought Owen a new skateboard the following weekend. I learned to say, "It's fine," before I knew how to spell fairness. At thirty-four, I still hated how quickly the old fear rose. Maybe the transfer was temporary. Maybe Caleb had a plan. Maybe my mind was inventing a betrayal because it had once been good at predicting disappointment. "Send me the paperwork," I said. "I'll come home and explain." "Send it now." Another pause. "I have a call in ten minutes." "Then send it in eleven." I ended the call and opened the business drive. The account ledger showed the transfer had been approved through Caleb's login. Our operating agreement required both owners to approve any payment over $25,000. Caleb knew that. I knew it. We had written the rule after a vendor overcharged us by six thousand dollars during our first year. My fingers went cold as I scrolled. The transfer wasn't the only one. There had been four payments to Larkspur in six weeks: $9,800, $12,000, $18,000, and now $84,600. I printed the ledger and laid each page side by side. My assistant, June, came in carrying coffee. "You look like someone just told you the cake's made of drywall." "Can you check the vendor schedule against the deposits for the next sixty days?" "Sure. Why?" "I want to make sure we have enough cash for everything." June set down the coffee. "Do we?" "I don't know yet." The words sounded strange. I built our budgets, negotiated contracts, and remembered every linen delivery date without looking at a calendar. I did not say I didn't know. I opened our upcoming event files. Three weddings had final payments due to caterers this week. One had a florist who wouldn't order the imported roses until we confirmed the transfer. If the money didn't come back, I could cover part of the gap with my personal savings, but I couldn't cover all of it. And if I did, I would be paying for a decision I hadn't made. At nine, Caleb arrived at the studio. He wore his navy coat and carried the paper cup he always bought from the bakery on Main Street. He put it down in front of me as if he still knew how to make me feel cared for. I didn't touch it. "Let me explain," he said. "Start with the four payments." He looked at the ledger. "Wren was in trouble." "How much trouble?" "She had a contractor walk off the job. The roof wasn't sealed properly, and the bank was holding the second draw until she paid for repairs." "So you paid the contractor from our account?" "I paid the lien. The last transfer covered the bank's condition." "Why didn't you ask me?" "I was trying to keep the inn alive long enough to refinance." "That isn't an answer." He sat down. "You would've said no." "Because it's our money." "It's money we can replace." "With what?" "I'm working on that." "Did you promise her you could use the deposits?" His jaw flexed. "I promised I'd help." "Caleb, did you tell her this was available?" He didn't answer. The silence took me back to the kitchen table, to my mother's hand on Owen's shoulder and the word equal said like a lid pressed down over a boiling pot. I put the ledger between us. "We have three weddings this week." "I know." "Then help me protect them." "I'm trying to protect all of us." "You don't get to decide that by yourself." "I'm not asking you to like it," he said. "I'm asking you to understand why I did it." "I understand why you wanted to help Wren. I don't understand why you thought I didn't deserve to know." His expression softened, and that was worse than anger. "You've always believed the worst is about to happen." "I believe what the bank statement says." "I'll pay it back." "When?" "Soon." "Give me a date." He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the paper cup. "I don't have one yet." The coffee between us went untouched.