“No. Work trip got canceled.”
“At six in the morning?”
“Last night.” Her voice went flat. “After I packed. After I took the time off. After I built the whole campaign they’re now presenting without me.”
That was the first time I heard real anger under her calm.
Not loud anger.
Worse.
Controlled anger.
The kind that does not explode right away because it is busy memorizing faces.
I should have stopped there. I should have said, “I’m sorry,” taken out my trash, and gone to work like a normal person.
But I had not taken a real vacation in four years. My sister Julia had bullied me into booking a small beach cottage outside Wilmington, North Carolina. Two bedrooms, ocean view, screened porch, and, according to the listing, “cozy coastal charm.”
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