Thursday afternoon, Celeste was called into a formal meeting at Westbridge. I didn't attend, and I didn't know every conversation that took place there. Later, documents disclosed during the divorce proceedings showed that compliance had confirmed unauthorized personal expenses, misleading descriptions on company reports, and violations of the company's policy governing relationships between managers and direct reports. Celeste had been interviewed and given an opportunity to respond to the records. After the review, her employment was terminated.
Grant's position ended as well. The company continued examining questionable expense claims from previous years, distinguishing personal charges from legitimate client expenses and determining whether reimbursement or further action was appropriate. Some records supported a pattern extending beyond the Tulum trip, though the exact amount had to be established by the audit rather than by rumor. I heard that the company was deciding whether to pursue repayment and make an external referral. I did not treat any allegation as a conviction, and I never asked to be told details I had no right to know.
Celeste came to the apartment that evening to collect additional clothing. She was still living temporarily with Marianne, although our rental remained a shared legal responsibility until we negotiated a formal arrangement. She stood in the hallway looking older than she had when she left for Tulum, with a tiredness that makeup couldn't hide. She told me she'd lost her job and that she didn't know how she would pay her bills. I felt a real pang of concern, because the person in front of me was still someone whose struggles I'd once considered my own.
"I'm sorry," I said. I meant it as sympathy, not as an admission that I'd caused the outcome. Celeste asked whether I could tell her lawyer that I was overreacting and that the money had been a misunderstanding. I said I would give a truthful account of the transactions and the documents, but I would not say something I knew to be false. She rubbed her forehead with both hands and asked why I had become so cold.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," I told her. "But I can't keep protecting a version of the story that isn't true." She said I sounded like Diane. I almost smiled because she intended it as an insult, and I'd come to respect Diane's ability to speak plainly. I asked whether she wanted some coffee before she packed. She shook her head and went into the bedroom.
For twenty minutes I heard drawers opening and closing. I stayed in the kitchen and sorted repair invoices, leaving her space to gather the things she needed. When she came out, she was holding a framed photograph from our honeymoon. It showed us at a roadside diner, leaning across a narrow table with terrible coffee and enormous slices of pie. She asked whether I wanted it. I said she could keep it if she wished, because I had other photographs and didn't need to fight over a picture of a time we had both genuinely enjoyed.