That night he slept facing away from me, and I apologized in the morning. I wish I could say I apologized because I believed him. The truth was that I had become tired of living in a house where every question turned into a dispute about my tone. A marriage can teach you to accept an astonishing amount of uncertainty if certainty always arrives accompanied by anger.
Three months before the Cancun flight, the first letter arrived from Crescent State Bank. The envelope was addressed to both of us, and Ryan took it out of my hands while I was sorting mail at the kitchen counter. He said it concerned a routine renewal on a commercial line of credit and that the company's accountants were handling everything. I reminded him that my father had left me a small property near Grapevine and that I did not want it involved in his business financing. He told me not to be ridiculous, kissed the top of my head, and carried the envelope to his office.
That land was not spectacular. It was just over six acres surrounding a small brick house, a workshop with blue doors, and a pecan tree that had been old before I was born. My father bought it long before developers began building luxury subdivisions nearby. For years the land was worth more to us as a place to spend Sunday afternoons than it was on paper. After his death, it had passed to me through his estate, with my mother retaining the right to live in the house for as long as she wanted.
I had promised my father I would not sell it merely because someone offered a large number. He had said there were only a few places in life where a person could arrive without having to explain themselves, and the property was one of ours. Ryan used to say he understood. Lately, when the bank called or a new highway project appeared on the county planning map, he talked about the property as though it were dormant capital rather than the place my mother kept my father's toolbox.
"It's sitting there doing nothing," he told me one evening over dinner. "We could use it intelligently and everybody would benefit."
"My mother lives there," I said.
"That's not what I mean. I'm talking about the land value. You'd still have a home there."
"I don't want to borrow against it or sign it over. Not for the company, not for an investment, not for anything."
He set down his fork. "You know, most wives would be proud to help their husbands grow a business."
"I am proud of the business. That doesn't mean I have to risk the only property my father left us."
He did not answer immediately. Instead he gave me a slow, disappointed look that made me feel as if I had failed a test neither of us had agreed I should take. For the next two days he was polite, distant, and careful not to mention the land again. At the time I thought the argument had been settled. Later I would understand that his silence had not meant acceptance.