Page 70 of Ripple Effect

Twisting so I’m facing her more directly, I ask, “What has you concerned?”

“Two things come immediately to mind.” But Libby doesn’t continue.

Leaning forward, I capture her chin in my hand. “Honey, talk it out. I know this seems like it came out of nowhere…”

Libby snorts. “You can say that again.”

I continue, but I file her reaction away. “But it took a while to get the necessary industry research. We were waiting on three independent assessments of the business value, which can’t be done overnight…”

“So, why am I just hearing about this now?” Libby demands.

“Is that one of your concerns?” At her emphatic nod, I rein in my temper. “We’ve been married long enough for you to understand I can’t talk about my work, Libby.” My tone of voice is one I use on clients who just don’t understand we’re not mercenaries for hire. They normally don’t appreciate it.

And apparently neither does my wife.

“I understand that, Calhoun,” Libby informs me icily, stressing my full name to impress upon me her full displeasure at being talked down to. “However, my concerns also extend to barely getting to spend time with you as it is! Do you really think adding ‘owner’ to whatever it is you do for that company will have you sleeping in our bed more?”

My temper slips when I snap back, “It hasn’t changed the number of times you’ve been gone from it recently.”

Libby freezes. “I’m surprised you noticed considering you’re never around when I’m missing from it.” Pushing to her feet, she tosses the blanket down on the couch between us—a line not to be crossed.

Making her way over to the door, she calls over her shoulder, “I know you want this, Cal. Do what you think is best.”

It’s the last time I see my wife before I climb into bed because she never comes down for dinner despite my ordering her favorite subs. I even bribed them to bring her sunflowers just like I did on our anniversary last year.

But Libby’s so hurt because of my callous comments, not even bringing one to bed and trailing it down her arm while whispering, “I’m sorry,” gets a rise out of her.

And the next morning, I’m treated to a shell of my wife whose eyes don’t sparkle.

I did that and I have no idea how to fix it.

* * *

Weeks later,long after I’ve signed the papers with Yarborough, I finally call Iris into my office. Steeping my fingers together, I tell her the story of what happened.

Iris gives me a pitying look. “You never learn do you. Tell her, Cal. For God’s sake, just tell her.”

“You heard her reaction, Iris. What will knowing get her?”

Standing up out of my chair, my wife’s best friend glares at me. “I don’t know. Maybe something we all demand in our marriages: the simple truth,” Iris snipes, before she stomps out of my office, slamming the door behind her.

Turning to face the windows, I contemplate Iris’s words. No, I can’t tell Libby everything. If I do, it will crush her. But now that I’ve taken on partial ownership, I can damn well try to be home more.

With that in mind, I push away from my desk and head toward Yarborough’s office to flesh out our new roles more thoroughly.

46

Elizabeth

Year Four - Seven Years Ago from Present Day

“Elizabeth Sullivan,” I answer my phone absentmindedly. “That couch belongs on the opposite wall,” I call out.

“Yes, Ms. Sullivan,” Frank, the lead of my Atlanta moving team, responds. “Be careful, boys. Those floors were just refinished.” His team makes noises of assent as they lift the large sofa that was misplaced.

I speak into the phone as I observe the new placement of the largest piece of furniture in the recently redesigned living room. “I apologize for the delay. This is Elizabeth,” I repeat.

“Hey, Libs.” It’s my brother. “What’cha up to?”