"Don't explain it to make me feel better," David said. "Find the number. Find out why the complaints didn't lead anywhere, and make sure that doesn't happen again. The facts aren't improved by the way we talk about them."
Celia assured him that employee statements would be collected independently and that Emma would receive written confirmation that retaliation was prohibited. She also explained that any corrective action involving Victor would be based on the verified findings and company policy. David agreed, asking that the store remain open and that staff not be blamed collectively for one manager's misconduct. He was especially concerned that Emma's colleagues might see her courage as the reason their workplace had become difficult.
When Celia left, Richard remained by the desk, looking older than he had an hour earlier. "I should have seen it," he said. David considered that statement for a moment.
"Yes," he answered. "You should have. But we're not going to repair one failure by pretending the rest of us never made mistakes. Start with what happened, then fix the conditions that let it happen."
Richard glanced at the bag. "Go home," he said. "You didn't spend the last forty years keeping that promise just to sit through our management problems on the day before your anniversary."
David laughed softly, though his eyes were tired. "I'll be back to ask the uncomfortable questions," he warned. Richard nodded. "I'm counting on it."
David left through a side entrance to avoid the lunchtime crowd. He did not want anyone taking a photograph of him carrying the bag or congratulating him for having a store manager suspended. His mind was on Evelyn, but it was also on the image of Victor's scissors closing around the card, an image that remained disturbing precisely because it had been so unnecessary. An expensive mistake had been made in a room full of people whose job was supposed to be making customers feel welcome.
Outside, the city had moved on. A bicycle courier hurried past, a man argued with a parking attendant, and a tourist asked a stranger for directions while balancing an oversized shopping bag against her knee. David walked several blocks to the garage and drove home, passing the same storefronts he had passed that morning. He stopped once at a small bakery to buy Evelyn's favorite cinnamon rolls, partly because the scent reminded him of their first apartment and partly because he wanted to arrive with something ordinary enough not to betray the anniversary surprise.
Evelyn was in the garden when he returned. She wore gloves stained with dark earth and had been coaxing a row of stubborn flowers into the last warm patch of the season. The garden contained no costly design features, no professionally sculpted hedges or ornamental fountains, just plants chosen because she liked their colors and because bees visited them. David watched from the porch for a moment before announcing himself.