“Yes.”
Sandra stepped forward.
“You’ve made your point.”
I looked at her for the first time since seeing the photograph.
“Sandra.”
Her arms crossed defensively.
“We need to come inside and talk.”
“You said you were never coming back.”
Greg rubbed the back of his neck.
“We said things.”
“No. You sent three very clear sentences.”
“We cannot do this on the porch.”
“We can.”
Across the street, a neighbor paused beside her mailbox.
Greg lowered his voice.
“The resort canceled the remainder of our reservation.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Our accounts aren’t working.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I know because I canceled the cards.”
Sandra stepped closer.
“You had no right.”
“I had every right.”
“Greg is your husband. Everything belongs to both of you.”
“The bank disagrees.”
Greg’s jaw tightened.
“We’re married.”
“For the moment.”
“So half of everything is mine.”
“Then your attorney should have no difficulty proving that.”
Neither spoke.
Sandra’s expression shifted first.
“We only need enough money to get settled.”
“My retirement accounts were not created to fund your new life.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Greg said.
“It looked exactly like that from the beach.”
I reached into the entry closet and removed the large envelope Patricia prepared.
I slid it through the narrow opening.
Greg took it.
As he read, the color left his face.
Petition for dissolution of marriage.
Temporary financial restrictions.
Preservation of separately owned assets.
Formal request for account tracing.
“You already filed?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even talk to me.”
“You announced the end of our marriage from another country.”
Sandra leaned over his shoulder.
“What does the financial restriction mean?”
Greg stopped reading.
“It means she froze access to everything connected to her.”
“Your business accounts still exist,” I said. “Anything legally registered to your company remains available unless another party has placed restrictions on it.”
He stared at me.
“You know.”
“I know much more than I did three days ago.”
Fear crossed his face.
Not anger.
Fear.
“Who is Patricia Hawke?” Sandra asked.
“My attorney.”
Greg stepped closer to the door.
“You hired Patricia Hawke?”
“I hired the right person.”
Sandra gripped his arm.
“Let’s get our things.”
I nodded toward the garage.
“They’re already packed.”
Boxes stood beneath the covered side of the driveway.
Every shirt.
Every shoe.
Every coat.
Every office item.
Nothing had been damaged or discarded. I packed Greg’s belongings with the same care I once used when wrapping his Christmas gifts.
Sandra stared at the boxes.
“You packed everything?”
“I had time.”
Greg walked toward a carton labeled FAMILY PHOTOS. He opened it and found the framed pictures individually wrapped in newspaper.
“You left the photographs.”
“They belong to your memories too.”