“How long.”
“Two hours,” she says, amused. “And before you ask, yes, I ate. Yes, Grandpa is good—better than yesterday. He beat me at chess and then fell asleep in his chair pretending he hadn’t. How are you?”
Honest answer isbetter, now.
Instead, I lean back and let the chair complain. “Managing the usual.”
We trade a few neutral lines—weather, board whispers, a rumor about the trust chair’s pet project—like two diplomats who haven’t decided whether to be allies or occupy each other. Then she says it, light and deadly.
“You almost sound like you’ve missed me.”
I let the silence stand just long enough to be felt. The study is very quiet. The lighthouse blinks. “And if I have?”
On the other end, nothing for a heartbeat, and then the smallest hitch in her breath, the kind a microphone wouldn’t catch.
Satisfaction slides under my skin like good liquor.
“Then,” she says carefully, “I suppose you can tell me about it when I get home.”
“Good,” I say, and let a smile into the word because she’ll hear it even if she pretends not to. “Hurry home, wife. I have a surprise for you.”
She hates surprises. I know this because I cataloged her preferences the way other men memorize closing prices. “What kind of surprise?”
“If I tell you, it ceases to be one.”
“You’re wicked,” she says, and the warmth in it is not feigned. “YouknowI hate the suspense.”
“That’s exactly why I did it.”
She laughs low, unwilling and real, and I feel it in my chest like an old song I refuse to admit I still like. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re late.”
“Two hours,” she repeats, smiling into the words. “Try not to start without me.”
The line clicks. The room breathes again.
I pick up the house phone and give the first set of instructions—Felix to ready the south lawn and the path to the cove, security to the outer perimeter, Marina to confirm the florist delivery and the lanterns, kitchen to hold the champagne at forty-five and send the oysters down five minutes after we arrive.
I ask maintenance for the lighthouse access keys, because signatures may have given me the deed but there are doors on this island I intend to open in person.
I hang up, stand, and cross to the wall safe behind the framed navigation chart. The combination turns under my fingers, a sequence I could dial in my sleep because I’ve practiced it as if speed could ever replace certainty.
The door swings, whispers against the jamb. Inside are deeds, flash drives, a stack of photographs I only look at when I want to be unproductive.
And a small box, matte black, heavy for its size.
I take it out and set it on the desk, thumb resting on the lid as if it might bolt.
Two hours, I tell myself. Enough time to make the island remember its owner.
Enough time to make her remember, too.
I pocket the box and let the safe close, the tumblers purring into place like a satisfied cat.
Then I turn to the window and watch the water until the house calls to tell me Naomi’s car has turned up the drive.
Vasso
