My parents called my husband “half a man” because of his height for twelve years until they went broke

“You should have called,” he said, his voice quiet and dry. “I would have met you at the deli.”

“What was that bill?” I asked, my voice barely louder than the hum of his desk lamp. “It said past due.”

“An old invoice from a consultant,” he said, placing his hand flat on the blueprint to smooth the crease. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“We don’t owe Oak Ridge Bank anything, do we?” I asked, watching his fingers.

“No,” Jordan said. “We don’t.”

“Then why are they sending past-due notices to your office?” I asked.

“They aren’t,” Jordan said. “It’s a commercial file I’m reviewing for a client.”

“Which client?” I asked.

“A holding company,” Jordan said. “They are looking at properties near the marina.”

“The marina is where my parents live,” I said.

“I know where they live, Claire,” Jordan said. “It’s a small town.”

He did not look at the deli bag. He just stood there with his hand on the blueprint, his silver drafting scale visible in his breast pocket, until I turned toward the door.