"Do not send them anything," I told Nina. "No fee schedule, no updated drawings, no letter saying we're considering the work. Tell the consultant we have not authorized our inclusion and need time to review how our materials were obtained. Copy me on every message."
Nina breathed out slowly. "That's exactly what I hoped you'd say. I'm going to call Nora in the morning."
Nora Valdez was an Atlanta attorney who had advised our studio on licensing and contracts for years. She was patient with creative people, which was another way of saying she could explain the difference between a drawing and the right to use it without making us feel foolish. I had consulted her when we brought our first employee on board and when a large developer tried to turn a paid concept study into unlimited access to our work. I had not imagined that she would become important to the future of my marriage.
That night I sent Julian one message asking whether he had given Westbridge our studio's designs without permission. I wrote it as a direct question rather than an accusation because I wanted his answer to exist independently of whatever explanation he might invent later. He replied after midnight with three paragraphs about exciting opportunities, joint success and how marriage required trust. Not once did he say yes or no.
I had always thought evasiveness meant someone didn't know what to say. Now I realized it could also mean they knew exactly what they had done and were trying to keep a conversation away from the point where it might be named. I did not respond. Instead, I saved the messages, downloaded the email from Nina and put the phone on the other side of the room so I could sleep.
Wednesday morning brought the first real surprise of the trip. I was leaving the spa after a swim when Sofia stepped out of the resort's public cafe, carrying a small paper bag and looking suddenly much younger without her careful airport makeup. For a moment we stared at each other across the path. I had spent the previous days picturing her triumphant beside my husband. In person, she looked frightened.
"Clara," she said. "Can we talk?"
"You're not a guest here," I replied, before I could stop myself.
She flinched. "I know. I came over on the morning boat. I asked reception if they'd pass on a note, but they said they couldn't contact you unless you wanted them to. I was going to leave."
I could have walked past her. There was no obligation to hear what she wanted to say, especially after the way she had smiled in the airport and called her intrusion a favor to the company. Yet something in her expression told me she had not come to make another pleasant excuse. I pointed toward an outdoor bench near the public walkway, far enough from the villas to maintain the privacy I had requested.