And one client, one wedding, standing between me and a foreclosure notice.
I went to hang Sean’s jacket on the coat rack where he’d draped it over the banister.
That’s when my fingers found the folded paper in the inside pocket.
One wedding standing between me and a foreclosure notice.
A receipt.
Bianchi’s, a restaurant downtown I’d never been to.
Two entrees, a bottle of wine, a dessert I didn’t recognize.
The receipt was dated three weeks earlier — a Thursday when he’d told me he had another job interview.
Had he mentioned having a business lunch that day?
I stared at the receipt until the numbers blurred.
Had he mentioned having a business lunch that day?
“Honey?” Sean’s voice, thick with sleep, came from the top of the stairs. “You still up?”
I slid the receipt back where I found it.
“Just finishing Vanessa’s notes.”
