Page 13 of SALT

"I'm making conversation, Everett. I care about Cameron, I practically raised her," she adds as she runs her fingers along the credenza opposite my desk.

"She came to live with us at seventeen. That hardly counts as raising her."

"You know what I mean, Everett." She stops in her tracks, her eyes finding mine before she adds, "We've known her since she was born."

If her eyes didn't say it, the accusation in her tone does. I'm trained to read between the lines. Cameron is still under my roof. Her father wasn't just my best friend. Damon was my business partner, and he died with a small fortune of his own, which Cameron inherited at twenty-one. She turned twenty-one a year ago. There isn't a good reason for her to still live with me. She doesn't need my money, nor does she need to live in my house, yet she's still there, and whether Moira is commenting on it indirectly or not, that means people notice. Knowing my name is circling the rumor mill is perturbing, but it's part of the territory living in a small town.

"Cameron is no longer your concern. Damon was my best friend, and you and I are no longer married." I don't bother addressing her insinuation.

"That's hardly fair?—"

"Why are you here, Moira?" Cameron is the last person I care to discuss with my ex-wife. She can speculate all she wants. I don't owe her anything.

"I went to your office to discuss the fundraiser this fall?—"

"You could have called or sent an email to?—"

"If you'd let me finish." She leans against the credenza. "Garrett said you wouldn't be in all summer because you'd be here. We were married for over twenty years, Everett. You don't take time off work. I was worried. The man I know eats, sleeps, and breathes Callahan & Associates. I assumed you're dying or going through some type of mid-life crisis, so I wanted to drop by in person."

I take a long drink of gin. I hate that those are her first assumptions, just like they were for my brothers. I was around for my family. Do I have a work ethic? Yes, but there's nothing wrong with that. It gave her a damn good life.

When I don't immediately answer, her hand flies to her heart. "Oh my god. Are you sick?"

"What? No, I'm not sick, Moira." I'm in better shape than half of the guys on the team and almost twice their age. Before she can make any more fucked-up inferences, I say, "I'm coaching Con's team for the summer."

Her eyebrows rise in surprise, probably more so at the fact that I'm actually doing it and not because I can't. "How did I not know this?"

"It's new and you've been out of town. Connor called me last Sunday and said he needed a favor. Of course I agreed." I don't bother telling her I agreed before understanding the full extent of his ask.

My patience is running thin, especially after her baseless accusation; passive or not, she knows what she was insinuating, and out of all the fucking people to believe a rumor or even give it breath… let's just say I'd expect more from her after everything we've been through.

"You know I tried, Everett. I never wanted to come between the two of you."

She did try, but Connor didn't handle our divorce well at all. The second he found out about it, I became enemy number one. Learning Moira's truth—our truth—helped, but the damage had already been done. I know what it's like to look up to someone and believe they hung the moon only to feel betrayed later. It fucking sucks. I hate that I made him feel that way by keeping our separation private. Moira asked me not to share it, and I respected her wishes. Had I known it would hurt our son as much as it has, I would have never agreed.

I've sacrificed a lot for the woman standing before me, and since our divorce, we've kept up appearances, maintained the charity, and still had family dinners at least once a month, until this year. She's the mother of my son. I'll always respect her, but her apology just now, if you could even call it that considering the word sorry wasn't spoken, felt empty. That, coupled with her accusatory tone since she arrived unannounced, has me changing my own.

"Moira, please get to whatever business it is that you want to discuss. I have work that I need to tend to."

"There he is," she says as if she knows me so well. I hate the condescension I hear. The mockery. It makes me look back on our marriage through a different lens. Was she always this patronizing, and that's why I busied myself? When I look at my brother Garrett's marriage, it's the definition of happy. The man can't wait to go home to his wife. Sure, I've always had a strong work ethic, but maybe I would have prioritized my time differently if I had the right woman on my arm. "I want to move the fundraiser to August," she says, reclaiming my focus.

"What? Why would we move it back to August? November makes more sense. August is back-to-school month. Donors' pockets are thin, coming off the heels of summer vacation spending without throwing in tuition costs. Plus, holding it in November gives people something to do indoors when the chance of cold, shitty weather is greater."

She pushes off the credenza and waves her hand. "Yes, I've thought of all that, but I don't think it will be the issue you believe it to be. Most of our donors have deep pockets. The details you brought up would be a moot point for them." Reaching into her Hermes bag, she pulls out her phone and scrolls. "Seventy-five percent of the funds we raise yearly come from the same thirty donors, all of whom we know are well-off and loyal to the cause."

"Yes, but it's the twenty-five percent who come and give what they can, sacrificing their last twenty-dollar bill for the name of the cause to which the event brings the most hope."

I throw back the last of the gin in my cup as I watch her process my words. Moira is smart. By the way her chest deflates, I can tell she was hoping I'd silently oblige like always. My words are most likely a reiteration of her thoughts, which I can tell is causing her some level of distress. I can't say that doesn't make me a little happy after her implied insinuations.

I expected her to give me a reason for the new date, but when her spine straightens and her eyes flash back up to mine, she says, "August fifth is the date the MacBeth fundraiser will be held this year." She puts her phone away and heads toward the door. Bracing herself on the frame, she turns back to me, words clearly on her tongue, but she says nothing and instead walks out.

Good riddance.

Chapter 8

Cameron

"Thanks again for letting me stay here. How's Florida?"

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