Chapter 3

On Angela Pruitt's fifty-fourth birthday, Desmond James left work half an hour early. He made a special trip home to collect a document he'd prepared well in advance, tucked it into his briefcase, and drove to Summit Private Kitchen in the heart of the city.

It was a members-only restaurant, two thousand dollars a head to start. Desmond took a seat by the window, the city lights glittering outside. He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock exactly, and Angela appeared in the restaurant doorway right on time.

She wore a navy dress today, the same coat as always, only now with a silk scarf around her neck.

"Sit." Desmond gestured at the chair across from him.

The waiter handed over the menu. Desmond didn't ask Angela's opinion. He flipped it open with practiced ease. "Two lobster dinners, one black truffle mushroom soup, and open a bottle of the twelve-year red."

The waiter wrote it down. "Very good, sir. That comes to three thousand eight hundred eighty dollars."

Desmond nodded, took out his phone, and tapped a few times on the calculator. "With the fifteen percent service charge, four thousand four hundred sixty-two. Round it down, four thousand four hundred sixty. That's two thousand two hundred thirty each."

He looked up at Angela. "Today's a special day, so the wine's my treat. Take four hundred off your share. Just transfer me one thousand eight hundred thirty."

Angela didn't look at the menu, and she didn't look at Desmond. She took out her phone and worked at it for a moment.

"Sent."

"Got it." Satisfied, Desmond put his phone away and took a sip of lemon water. "Angela, today is your first day of retirement, and it's your birthday. Happy birthday."

"Thank you." Angela lifted her water glass and drank.

The dishes came slowly, each one plated with care. Desmond cut the lobster on his plate, cut it into neat, even pieces, as though dissecting a specimen.

"Retirement paperwork all done?" Desmond asked.

"Done."

"How much is your pension?"

"Thirty-two hundred."

Desmond set down his knife and fork and dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "Thirty-two hundred. That's thirteen hundred less than what you made working. Add in inflation, and it'll be hard to keep up your old standard of living on that in New York. Especially if you want to keep paying into your benefits at the same base rate. The pressure will be considerable."

Angela cut a small piece of lobster, put it in her mouth, chewed slowly. "So?"

Desmond put down his knife and fork and leaned forward slightly, striking a negotiating posture. He drew the document out of his briefcase and pushed it across to her.

"So I've worked out a plan for you." Desmond tapped a finger on the document. "Given that your income has dropped sharply, I've decided to end the split-everything arrangement we've kept for twenty-six years."

Angela's hand paused, her eyes settling on the cover of the document: Household Living Adjustment Agreement.

"Open it and take a look," Desmond prompted.

Angela flipped it open. Inside, a dozen or so clauses were laid out in dense rows.

Desmond narrated beside her. "It's simple. Starting today, you quit all your part-time cleaning jobs and come back to the home. From now on, I'll cover the water, power, and gas, the HOA fees, the grocery money, all of it. You won't have to pay a cent."

He watched her expression, and seeing that she didn't cut in, he went on. "In exchange, you handle all the housework. That includes three meals a day, the cleaning, the laundry and ironing, and any home care that may be needed down the road. Of course, to guarantee quality, I'll draw up a performance standard, the same one you worked to when you were cleaning houses."

Angela looked at the document, her voice level. "You mean I become the full-time housekeeper to work off my living expenses?"

"I wouldn't put it that way," Desmond corrected. "A housekeeper is an employment relationship. We're husband and wife. These days, a live-in housekeeper runs at least six thousand a month, plus room and board. Your pension is only thirty-two hundred, and once you factor in food and lodging, when you do the math, you actually come out ahead. Considering our twenty-six years as a married couple, I'm offering you a 'gift.'"

He picked up his wine glass and swirled it gently. "Angela, you're getting older. Those cleaning jobs out there are exhausting, and they're not exactly dignified. Come home, take care of me, live an easier life, and save the money too. It's win-win."

Angela closed the document and looked up. Her gaze was clear, like still water rippled once by the wind and then smoothing back to calm just as quickly.

Angela smiled. It was the first time in twenty-six years that Desmond had seen her smile like that. Not to placate, not bitterly, but with a kind of relief, as though she'd just heard the biggest joke in the world.

"Desmond, you really do keep good accounts." Angela pushed the document back to him. "For twenty-six years you calculated everything down to the penny, never let me get one cent over on you. Now I'm old, I'm retired, and you're still calculating. You want to buy out the rest of my life with a few thousand dollars of living expenses?"

Desmond frowned. "How can you think that way? I make seven hundred eighty thousand a year. I could easily hire a younger housekeeper. I chose you because you're already a member of this household, safe, familiar."

"A shame." Angela took a kraft envelope out of her bag and set it on the table. "This job, I won't take it."

"What do you mean?" Desmond looked at the envelope.

Angela pushed the envelope across to him, laying it right on top of the Agreement.

"Take a look."

Puzzled, Desmond tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

The first page bore three bold words: Divorce Settlement Agreement.

Desmond's hand jerked, and a few drops of red wine spilled onto the spotless white tablecloth.

"You want a divorce?" Desmond's voice rose a notch, drawing glances from a few of the surrounding tables. He lowered it. "Angela, have you lost your mind? You're retired now, three thousand a month. Leave me and where do you live? What do you eat? You couldn't even afford to rent a basement in this city!"

Angela picked up her napkin and wiped her hands, elegant and unhurried. "That's no longer your concern."

With that, she turned and walked away.

"Stop right there!" Desmond wanted to grab her, but Angela walked fast, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

Desmond sat there staring at the table of expensive dishes barely touched, his face gone ashen with rage.

"Waiter!" He waved a hand. "Box it up."