Spring Morning

Chapter 2: Separate Lines

I slept in the apartment above the conservatory that night because the rain had flooded the road to our house.

Daniel slept at the house anyway.

We owned both places jointly. Aster House belonged to our company, and the little cedar house on the bluff was the only home either of us had ever purchased. The apartment above the conservatory had a foldout couch, a working shower, and a kitchenette that smelled faintly of old coffee. I had spent dozens of nights there during weddings and storm repairs. I had never spent one there because my husband had asked for a divorce.

At 6:12 the next morning, I opened my laptop and searched for family-law attorneys in Bellwether Bay.

I didn't send Daniel a message. I didn't tell him I had made the appointment. I didn't tell him I'd taken the apartment key off our shared ring and put it in the drawer beside the microwave. The choices were small and practical. I made them because I had spent years notifying him of every step, hoping that the running account of my efforts would persuade him to notice what I carried.

I no longer wanted to persuade him.

The attorney, Marisol Grant, had a narrow office above a pharmacy and a habit of letting silence sit until I filled it. I told her about the job in Greyhaven and the words in the back office. I told her we owned the conservatory through an LLC and the house through both our names. I told her we had a business loan due for renewal at the end of May.

"Have you both agreed to divorce?" she asked.

"He said it. I agreed."

"Have you told him you're hiring counsel?"

"No."

"Then you should be prepared for him to hear it through the letter."

I nodded.

"Do you want the house?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want the business?"

"I want to know what it would cost to keep it."

She wrote that down. "Those are different questions."

"I know."

Before I left, I signed the engagement papers and gave her the financial statements I had on my laptop. I had them because I handled the books. I had the loan agreement, tax filings, payroll, vendor contracts, and the records of every repair we'd done since we bought the conservatory. The information wasn't a weapon. It was simply the work I had done.

When Marisol's letter arrived at our house, Daniel called me once.

I watched the phone ring while I stood in the kitchen at Aster House, making a list of materials for the roof repair. His name filled the screen. I let it stop.

Then a text appeared.

Daniel: I got a letter from your attorney. Can we talk?

I turned the phone face down.

A few minutes later, Tessa came in carrying two boxes of table linens. "Do you need me to move the afternoon tour?"

"No. We're still on schedule."

"Daniel asked me if you'd gone home."

"He can ask me directly."

"I thought he did."

I folded a linen in half and placed it on the stack. "Please keep the staff out of it."

"Of course."

That afternoon, Daniel sent a second message.

Daniel: I didn't realize you meant it.

I read it, then deleted the notification without replying. It didn't need an answer. My lawyer had already written the first one.

The days that followed did not feel like a clean break. They felt like being handed the same heavy object and being told to carry it from a different room. I still approved invoices. I still checked the heating system and worked with Tessa on the spring calendar. I still took a call from the bank about the loan renewal. I just stopped forwarding Daniel every update unless he needed it to do his part.

He lived in the house. I lived above the conservatory. We used the shared business calendar for work. We used our lawyers for everything else.

On Tuesday, the roof contractor arrived and found more damage than the visible leak suggested. The old sealant had failed along the east ridge, and two panels needed replacement.

"Can you do it before the May event?" I asked him.

"If the material comes in on time."

"Can you put that in writing?"

He shrugged. "I can."

"Please do."

I recorded the estimate in the maintenance file and sent it to Daniel through the company portal. No message, no explanation. Just the estimate and the approval deadline.

He approved it three hours later.

At the end of the week, I went to the house for my clothes. Daniel wasn't there. His work boots stood by the door. A clean mug sat on the counter beside the coffee machine. I packed two suitcases and left the rest.

On the dresser, a photograph showed us at Aster House the year we bought it. I had a streak of white paint across my cheek. Daniel had a bandage on one thumb. We were smiling at the camera as if we'd just won something.

I left the photograph where it was.

I took a folder of personal documents and one small ceramic bowl my mother had made. At the front door, I looked back at the hallway. Nothing had changed. My coat still hung on the peg beside his. The umbrella stand still held the yellow umbrella he'd bought me because he liked seeing it against the gray weather.

I did not take it.

When I returned to the apartment, there was a message from Daniel.

Daniel: I'm not trying to fight. I just want to understand.

I left it unanswered.

The next morning, I submitted the revised grant application. It was the first thing I'd done in weeks that belonged only to me.