Chapter 10 - The Cottage Problem
Eleven months later, I visited the Oregon coast.
The cottage was perfect.
Weathered gray shingles. A crooked garden gate. Windows facing the water. Enough room for books, naps, and absolutely no breakfast politics.
The old version of me would have signed the purchase papers immediately.
Instead, I stood on the porch thinking about Kellan.
Very inconvenient.
Back in Seattle, Odette remained diminished but not destroyed. Augustus finalized the voting trust transfer. Tate became even more insufferable because he claimed he had recognized my genius first. Bernice sent me a holiday card. The hotel chef offered me a loyalty discount.
As for Kellan and me, the contract reached its final month without either of us mentioning divorce.
One evening, he found me in the lake-house breakfast room, staring at the receipt from that first outsourced meal. I had framed it.
“You framed the breakfast bill?”
“It was historically significant.”
“It cost Odette three thousand dollars.”
“History is expensive.”
He smiled.
I did not look away this time.
“I bought the cottage,” I said.
His face changed, though only slightly. Kellan never collapsed emotionally when a subtle eyebrow movement would do.
“I see.”
“I’m not moving there full-time.”
He waited.
“It has an excellent bed,” I continued. “But poor proximity to you.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he crossed the room and placed a new receipt beside the framed one.
It was for a second cottage key.
“I arranged it,” he said.
I stared at him.
“That is my line.”
“I learned from the best.”
The fake marriage ended on paper.
The real one began quietly, over toast, without witnesses, strategy, or anyone waking me at four in the morning.
I never became ambitious.
May you like
I simply became very selective about what deserved my effort.
And somehow, against all logic, Kellan Bellweather became one of those things.
