Malcolm nods slowly and follows him toward the door.
Behind them, the empty chair at the head of the table sits in silence.
By Friday, it won't matter whether Seamus sits in it or not.
The decision will already be made.
Chapter twenty-nine
Rosanna
Seamus catches me in the kitchen Thursday morning while I'm making coffee. I've been avoiding him since our argument, spending more time in my studio with the door closed. It's easier that way.
"I was thinking we could get out of the penthouse today," he says, and there's something tentative in his voice I haven't heard before. "Maybe a picnic in Riverside Park? The weather's supposed to be perfect."
I should say no. I should tell him that a picnic isn't going to fix what's broken between us, that I can't just pretend everything is fine because he's planned a romantic outing.
But I'm tired of the tension, tired of the closed doors and careful silences. And maybe some part of me still wants to believe that we can find our way back to the easy moments we had before everything got complicated.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "That sounds nice."
Two hours later, we're spread out on a blanket under an old oak tree, and Seamus has somehow arranged for an actual picnicbasket—the kind with real plates and cloth napkins and food that definitely didn't come from a grocery store.
There's cheese and fruit and some kind of artisan bread that probably costs more than most people spend on an entire meal.
It's excessive and thoughtful and so perfectly Seamus that I don't know whether to be charmed or frustrated.
"Tell me about your project," he says, pouring sparkling water into actual glass cups. "The illustration work. How's it coming along?"
It's such a normal question, the kind of thing he asks over breakfast on good days, and I find myself answering honestly. "I'm almost done with Chapter Five. Mira's garden is really established now—she's starting to share it with other kids in the neighborhood, teaching them how to plant their own seeds."
"That's the whole point, isn't it?" Seamus hands me a plate with cheese and grapes arranged more artfully than I could ever manage. "Not just creating something beautiful yourself, but showing other people they can do it too."
I look at him, surprised. "Yeah. Exactly that. It's about making space for growth, even in places that seem impossible."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself relax into the moment—the warmth of the sun, the taste of good food, the simple pleasure of being outside instead of trapped in our separate offices pretending we're not avoiding each other. Around us, the park is full of people living their lives: joggers and dog-walkers, parents with strollers, teenagers sprawled on the grass with their phones.
Near the fountain, there's a cluster of tables where people are playing chess. I watch them for a few minutes—the intense concentration, the careful consideration of each move, the way some players chat while others maintain serious silence. There's something peaceful about it, the way a complex game can createa space where nothing else matters except the board in front of you.
"I haven't played in years," I say, not really meaning to speak out loud.
Seamus follows my gaze. "Chess?"
"My grandfather taught me when I was little. We used to play every Sunday after dinner." The memory surfaces unexpectedly—Grandpa's patient explanations, the way he'd let me take back moves when I was learning but never once let me win. "I was terrible at it, but I loved the ritual. The way each piece moved differently, had its own purpose."
"Want to play now?" Seamus is already standing, offering me his hand. "Those tables are public. I think there are spare sets in the pavilion."
I should say no. I should tell him I'm too rusty, that I'll just embarrass myself. But his hand is extended and there's something open in his expression—not the careful control he usually wears, but genuine interest. Like he actually wants to do this simple thing with me, not because it serves some purpose but just because.
"Sure," I say, and let him pull me to my feet.
Seamus finds a chess set and we claim an empty table. The pieces are worn smooth from use, the board's squares faded but still clear. He sets up his side with quick efficiency, and I arrange mine more slowly, trying to remember which pieces go where. Knight, bishop, rook—the names come back easier than the strategy.
"Fair warning," I say as I place the last pawn. "I'm going to be terrible at this."
"I don't mind." He gestures for me to make the first move. "Ladies first."
I move a pawn forward, the classic opening I remember from childhood. Seamus responds immediately, and we fall into therhythm of the game. He's good—I can tell within the first few moves. He thinks several steps ahead, sets up combinations I don't see until they're already happening. But he's not ruthless about it. When I make an obviously bad move, he doesn't immediately capitalize. He gives me space to see my mistake, to adjust.
