I watched Beatrice place the empty folder under her arm.
Then she kissed Marcus on the cheek.
She did not say goodbye to me.
After she left, I expected Marcus to apologize.
Instead, he poured himself a glass of water.
“You didn’t have to be so suspicious.”
I stared at him.
“I wasn’t suspicious before she walked in.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother is trying to help us plan as a married couple.”
“We have been a married couple for eight days.”
“Exactly. This is when people organize things.”
“Together.”
He frowned.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because apparently it’s a new concept.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
“So was the notary.”
Marcus set the glass down harder than he needed to.
“What do you think we were trying to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You think I’m trying to steal from you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“I’m acting like someone placed legal documents in front of me that would give you authority over my finances.”
“I’m your husband.”
“That is not an answer.”
For the first time since our wedding, Marcus looked at me not as his wife, but as an obstacle.
The expression lasted only a second.
Then he softened his voice.
“Elaine, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Then why are we fighting?”
“Because love doesn’t make paperwork less important.”
He looked tired.
“So have your attorney look at it.”
“I will.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He walked out of the kitchen.
I remained at the island with thirty-two pages of documents in front of me.
What neither Marcus nor Beatrice knew was that the assets they were so interested in were very real.
When I was thirty-four, my grandfather left me six small rental cottages on Tybee Island, Georgia.
They were not mansions.
They were modest coastal cottages my grandfather had purchased one by one over nearly thirty years.
Two were within walking distance of the beach.
One had a screened porch that always smelled faintly of salt and old pine.
Another was barely bigger than a two-bedroom bungalow.
By the time I inherited them, all six were paid off.
I hired a professional property manager because I lived several hours away and had no desire to become the person answering calls about broken air conditioners on holiday weekends.
Over the years, the cottages produced steady rental income.
Some years were better than others.
Storm repairs could be expensive.
Insurance costs rose.
Property taxes rose.
Maintenance never stopped.
But the portfolio gave me something more valuable than extravagance.
Independence.
I still worked.
I still contributed to retirement accounts.
I still drove ordinary cars and compared prices at the grocery store.
I simply knew that if life went wrong, I had options.
Money had changed people around me before.
After my first husband, Thomas, died of cancer, relatives I had barely heard from suddenly became curious about my estate.
A cousin asked whether I planned to sell “all those beach houses.”
A man I dated several years later became offended when I mentioned that I would want a prenuptial agreement before remarrying.
“I’m not after your money,” he said.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Then why bring up a prenup?”
That relationship ended soon afterward.
So when I met Marcus, I was careful.
We met at a charity dinner hosted by the hospital foundation where a friend of mine worked.
He was widowed.
His wife had died six years earlier.
He had one adult daughter who lived in Texas.
I had no children.
Marcus had spent most of his career overseeing operations for a commercial construction company before retiring.
He was warm without being loud.
Attentive without being pushy.
He remembered small things.
How I took my coffee.
Which shoulder hurt after I gardened too long.
That I hated restaurants where music was so loud people had to shout across the table.
We dated for almost two years.
He never asked for money.
He never borrowed money.
He never asked what my house was worth.
When I told him I had inherited some assets from my grandfather and lived comfortably, he nodded.
“Good for your grandfather.”
That was all.
I loved him partly because it seemed not to matter.
Before our wedding, I told him again that I had separate inherited property.
“I’ve always kept it separate,” I said.
“I understand.”
“I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Elaine, I’m not marrying you for your balance sheet.”
I smiled.
“I know.”
I believed him.
I did not insist on a prenuptial agreement.
That decision would bother me later, though not for the reason people might assume.
My attorney had encouraged one.
I had hesitated because Marcus reacted so calmly to the discussion of separate property that I convinced myself a prenup might communicate distrust where none existed.
My attorney, Laura Chen, had said something I remembered afterward.
“A good agreement does not create mistrust. It makes expectations clear while everyone still likes each other.”
I had smiled.
“We like each other quite a lot.”
“Then this is the easiest time to discuss it.”
I postponed.
Then wedding planning took over.
Then I decided my existing property records and separate management structure were enough for the moment.
I had planned to review everything after the honeymoon.
Instead, eight days after the ceremony, Beatrice brought a notary into my kitchen.
There was another thing Marcus did not know.
I had planned to tell him the full story of the cottages at Christmas.
Not because I wanted to test him.
I wanted to surprise him.
I had reserved the largest cottage for us for the week after Christmas.
It was the one my grandfather loved most.
White siding.
Green shutters.
A deep front porch.
A short path through sea oats toward the beach.