Chapter 6 - The Unopened Envelope
Grant stood on the small wooden porch, the salt air burning his lungs. Looking at her up close, he saw the deep shadows beneath her eyes, the translucence of her skin, and the incredible, vast distance that now separated them even though they were standing two feet apart.
“Claire,” he rasped, his voice breaking instantly. “Claire... please.”
Claire looked down at his trembling hands, then up at his exhausted, tear-streaked face. “How did you find me?”
“I hired someone,” Grant admitted honestly, not wanting to lie to her ever again. “I just... I needed to know you were alive. I needed to know you were safe.”
Claire stepped back from the door, holding it open just wide enough for him to enter. “Come in out of the cold. You're shivering.”
The cottage smelled of cedar, burning oak wood, and damp wool. It was sparse—a simple couch, a small iron woodstove, a kitchen with three mismatched plates, and an easel standing in the corner near the window. It looked almost identical to their first apartment in Queens.
Grant stepped inside, taking off his coat. He stood in the center of the small room, feeling impossibly large, invasive, and dirty in her clean, quiet sanctuary.
“Claire,” Grant began, stepping toward her, his eyes brimming with tears. “I found the medical report. I found it on the table after you left.”
Claire stopped in the middle of the room. Her shoulders tensed slightly, but she didn't turn around to face him.
“I didn't leave it for you to feel guilty, Grant,” she said softly. “I left it so you would understand that I didn't leave because of a joke.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” Grant choked out, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. “My God, Claire, why didn't you call me? Why didn't you scream at me when I came home from Dallas? I would have dropped everything! I would have burn the whole company down if I knew you were hurting!”
Claire turned around slowly. She looked at him with an expression of profound, crushing pity that cut deeper into Grant’s chest than any knife ever could.
“I tried, Grant,” she said quietly.
The words were simple, but they fell between them like boulders.
“I called you four times from the emergency room,” Claire whispered. “Your assistant answered twice and told me you were in a closed-door meeting with the Henderson Group and couldn't be disturbed unless it was an emergency. I didn't want to tell your secretary that our baby was dead.”
Grant shook his head frantically, his hands clutching his hair. “I didn't know! She didn't tell me!”
“And when you came home the next night,” Claire continued, her voice steady, emotionless, and terribly clear, “I was sitting on the edge of the bed. I had the hospital discharge papers in my hands. I was ready to tell you. But you walked in, looked at your watch, told me you had forty minutes before a conference call with Tokyo, kissed my head, and said I looked tired.”
May you like
She took a deep breath, looking down at her bare feet on the wooden floorboards.
“I realized then, Grant, that if I told you, my grief would become another task on your calendar. You would schedule two days to comfort me, hire the best doctors, tell me we would try again when the market stabilized, and then go back to work. I couldn't bear to see our baby turned into a project.”
