I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. I did not feel triumphant. The woman on the porch was somebody I had once promised to protect in sickness and in health, and watching her discover that the old arrangements were gone was not pleasant. But I also did not regret telling her the truth. I saved the security footage privately, wrote down what had happened, and called Peter to confirm that I would send him copies the following morning.
Ray watched a short section of the footage a few days later because he had offered to repair the planter and I needed to explain the damage. He shook his head when he saw the kick and said, "That planter deserves hazard pay." I laughed, then felt the laughter give way to a tired sadness I could not name. Ray set his hand on my shoulder and said, "You can be relieved and miserable at the same time, Mark. Nobody's keeping score." I wished I had learned that a few years sooner.
The following week was a circus with better costumes. Erica called the marina six times on Monday, each time introducing a different emergency and each time insisting that someone put me on the phone immediately. Once she said she needed information about an insurance card, which Sam could provide through counsel. Once she said a furniture delivery was being mishandled, which had nothing to do with Harborline and considerably more to do with the fact that Damon apparently did not want another dresser in his guest room. The last call ended when she informed our receptionist that I was holding her hostage financially.
Our receptionist, a practical woman named Denise who had worked with us for eleven years, looked at the phone and asked Sam whether hostage situations ordinarily involved someone calling from a boyfriend's condominium. Sam took the call, gave Erica Peter's contact information, and politely explained that the office could not discuss personal financial matters. After the sixth attempt, he asked our phone provider to route repeated nonbusiness calls from that number to a recorded message with the appropriate legal contact. I told him I was sorry it had become his problem. He reminded me that he had survived our first supplier audit and two hurricane seasons with the office phone ringing nonstop; he could survive a former spouse who had not yet learned the difference between personal and business hours.
The mutual friends began contacting me as soon as Erica's version of events circulated. One woman I had known through charity dinners wrote that marriage required compassion even when feelings were hurt. A former neighbor asked whether I really intended to let Erica start over with nothing. Somebody else said