“Agreed,” Blackwood said dryly. “But that doesn’t stop desperate people from filing motions.”
Desperate.
That word followed Grant everywhere now. People who had once described him as polished or ambitious had updated their vocabulary after the funeral. Desperate. Opportunistic. Overreaching. A few of his colleagues sent me carefully worded condolence notes that managed to communicate both sympathy and professional distancing. Becca, for all her bad judgment, had apparently disappeared from the firm within a week.
Good.
The only person who still seemed to think charm could solve this was Grant himself.
He kept trying to contact me. New numbers. New email addresses. A letter mailed to the cottage in an envelope so expensive it practically hissed. The messages cycled through apology, blame, nostalgia, self-pity, and once—truly impressively—an attempt to suggest that the affair had happened because he felt “financially sidelined in the marriage.”
I did not respond.
One Friday afternoon, after six straight hours of document review, I drove to the marina and took Integrity out alone.
The yacht had always been my father’s happiest place. He bought her the year after my mother died and spent the next decade sanding teak, replacing lines, and swearing at weather apps with the devotion some men reserve for religion. As a child, I thought he loved the boat because he loved winning races. When I got older, I realized he loved the boat because the ocean didn’t care who you were off the water. Out there, you were either honest about the conditions or stupid enough to sink.
The marina smelled like diesel, wet rope, and fried fish from the shack near the bait shop. I cast off with hands that still remembered what Dad taught them. The harbor opened. The wind filled. The deck tilted under me with the old familiar grace of a thing built to move forward.
Out past the breakwater, the city fell away.
I let the boat run on a broad reach and felt my shoulders drop for the first time in days. Salt stuck to my lips. Sun flashed off the water in white knives. My father had been right: some grief loosens when the horizon gets wide enough.
I was halfway through adjusting the jib when my phone buzzed in the waterproof pocket of my jacket.
Blackwood.
I answered on speaker. “If this is another filing, I’m throwing myself overboard.”
“That would complicate service,” he said. “So please don’t.”