“Traffic on the turnpike,” I said, stepping past her into the foyer.

The smell of lavender and expensive floor wax filled the air.

“You didn’t answer my call,” she said, closing the door behind me.

“My phone was in my pocket,” I lied, hanging my coat in the closet.

She took a sip of her wine, her manicured nails tapping against the glass.

“Your mother called twice,” she said.

“She wants to know if we are attending the gala on Saturday.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I said.

I walked toward the kitchen, needing a glass of water to wash down the dryness in my throat.

Celeste followed me, her soft slippers making no sound on the hardwood floor.

“Is something wrong, Adrian?” she asked.

“You look pale.”

“I have a lot on my mind with the firm,” I said, keeping my back to her.

I poured water from the refrigerator dispenser.

My mind was still in that small cottage in Maine, looking at Noah’s small hand.

“You’ve been distracted for weeks,” Celeste said.

She leaned against the marble countertop, watching me closely.