It was the last memory that resisted every effort to put it away. He understood the financial consequences well enough now, and he had stopped expecting them to reverse. What remained unfinished was the conversation in which he had tried to apologize and still managed to imply that his wife's behavior was wrong mainly because of who Maya turned out to be. He wanted to speak to Maya once more, without lawyers presenting alternatives or bankers discussing concessions. For the first time, he wanted a conversation that would gain him nothing except the chance to tell the truth.
Richard asked a mutual professional acquaintance whether Maya might consider meeting privately. The request was passed to David Hargrove, who asked Richard's counsel to confirm that it involved no commercial proposal, settlement demand, or attempt to reopen negotiations. Richard agreed immediately. David took the request to Maya on a quiet afternoon at the end of the seventh month. She read it, thought for a while, and said that she would consider a short meeting after she returned from a scheduled business trip.
"You don't owe him closure," David reminded her. Maya looked toward the city beyond the window.
"I know. But sometimes a conversation occupies more space when it's left unfinished. I'd rather hear what he has to say than keep wondering whether he learned anything from what happened." David asked whether she wanted counsel present. She said no, provided the meeting took place in a neutral location and involved no documents to sign. It would be one conversation between two people whose decisions had affected each other, nothing more.
A conference room in a Midtown Atlanta law office was reserved for the following month, almost eight months to the day after the gala. The intermediary sent each party the time and address. Richard read the confirmation several times but did not tell himself the meeting was an opportunity to restore his family's lost status. Maya placed it on her calendar between an operations review and a scholarship foundation call.
Neither person knew exactly what the other would say, and for once Richard found the uncertainty appropriate.
On the morning of the meeting, Richard arrived twenty minutes early and waited in a reception area that had none of the grandeur of the Grand Harrington. The furniture was simple, the carpet was gray, and a receptionist offered him water in an ordinary glass. He had considered bringing a written apology, then decided that reading from a prepared page would allow him to hide behind the same kind of polish that had failed him at the gala. Instead, he carried a small notebook containing three questions he wanted to answer honestly if Maya asked them. What had happened, what had changed, and what responsibility he could claim without demanding gratitude for it.