Chapter 2 - THE WATCH THAT STOPPED AT 9:17
The first time my husband defended me, he did it in front of eighty people who had been invited to watch me fail.
And afterward, he told me never to thank him.
It happened at the Calder Museum fundraiser, eleven days after our wedding.
I was standing beside a marble sculpture when a woman in emerald silk approached with two champagne glasses and a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
“Audrey Lennox. Or should I call you Mrs. Vale now?”
“Either works.”
“I'm Rebecca Calder. Graham and I have known each other for years.”
I recognized her name.
Her family's foundation had financed several of the waterfront restoration projects connected to the Vale businesses.
Rebecca handed me a glass.
“I was surprised Graham married again.”
I frowned.
“Again?”
Her smile widened.
“Oh, goodness. Charlotte didn't tell you?”
Before I could respond, Graham appeared beside me.
“Rebecca.”
One word.
Her expression changed.
“I was just welcoming your wife.”
“Then you've finished.”
He placed his hand against my lower back.
It was the first time he'd touched me in public without a photographer nearby.
Rebecca looked from his hand to my face.
“Of course. Congratulations to you both.”
She walked away.
I waited until we reached the adjoining gallery.
“You were married before?”
“No.”
“Then what was that about?”
“Rebecca enjoys making people uncomfortable.”
“She's talented.”
Graham almost smiled.
Then he withdrew his hand.
“Stay near the main ballroom tonight.”
I stared at him.
“Is that a request or another household regulation?”
“A precaution.”
“Against what?”
His eyes shifted toward a gray-haired man standing near the museum's grand staircase.
“Against people who think you're useful.”
The man turned.
Even from across the room, I recognized him.
Everett Vale.
Graham's uncle.
Sixty-one years old, silver-haired, and smiling like a politician who had already counted the votes.
He raised his glass toward me.
Graham didn't return the gesture.
Instead, he murmured, “Don't be alone with him.”
Naturally, twenty minutes later, Everett found me alone.
I was studying a collection of nineteenth-century maritime photographs when he appeared beside me.
“Wonderful exhibit, isn't it?”
“It is.”
“Boston was built by people who understood that fortunes are made on the water.”
I looked at him.
“And occasionally lost there.”
He laughed.
“I can see why Charlotte chose you.”
“That's an interesting way to describe my marriage.”
Everett's smile softened.
“Forgive me. I'm an old man accustomed to speaking too plainly.”
He gestured toward a photograph of workers standing beneath a partially completed bridge.
“My nephew is very difficult to love.”
“That sounds like something you should discuss with him.”
“Perhaps.”
His eyes studied my face.
“Has Graham told you much about Miles?”
The question tightened something inside my chest.
“Only that he died four years ago.”
“A terrible accident. And terribly preventable.”
I said nothing.
Everett sighed.
“Your father's company was responsible for those inspections. I imagine that has made your marriage uncomfortable.”
“My father has lived with that tragedy every day.”
“Has he?”
The two words carried an accusation.
Then Everett reached into his jacket and removed a small folded photograph.
He handed it to me.
Two young men stood on a Boston dock.
Graham looked about twenty-five.
Beside him was another man with the same dark hair and an easier smile.
Miles.
A silver wristwatch gleamed on his left arm.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
September 14. The last summer we were happy.
“Graham keeps the original,” Everett said. “I thought you might appreciate a copy.”
“Why?”
“Because every marriage deserves honesty.”
Before I could answer, Graham's voice came from behind us.
“Give me the photograph, Audrey.”
I turned.
He was standing completely still.
His face had lost its color.
“Graham—”
“Please.”
That single word surprised me more than his anger would have.
I handed him the photograph.
Everett lifted both palms.
“There's no need for theatrics.”
Graham looked at his uncle.
“Stay away from my wife.”
A nearby conversation stopped.
Everett's expression hardened.
“Your wife? Interesting. You spent four years blaming her family for your brother's death, and now you're playing the devoted husband?”
Graham stepped closer.
“Walk away.”
“Or what?”
“Don't make me answer that in front of these people.”
Everett studied him for several seconds.
Then he gave me a small, almost sympathetic nod.
“Ask him what happened to Miles's watch.”
And he left.
I stared after him.
Graham slipped the photograph into his inside pocket.
“We're going home.”
“We've been here forty minutes.”
“That's enough.”
“No, Graham.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Excuse me?”
“You don't get to drag me across Boston every time someone mentions something you refuse to explain.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
He looked toward the guests.
For one uncomfortable moment, I thought he would abandon me in the gallery.
Instead, he offered his arm.
“Come downstairs. We'll talk.”
We didn't.
Not in the car.
Not when we entered the Beacon Hill brownstone.
Not when I followed him into the kitchen at nearly eleven.
Graham rolled up his sleeves and began making scrambled eggs.
I stood across the island.
“You cook when you're upset.”
“I cook when I'm hungry.”
“You barely ate dinner.”
“That would explain the hunger.”
I pulled out a chair.
“Everett wanted me to ask about a watch.”
Graham stopped stirring.
“Forget what he said.”
“Was it Miles's?”
“Yes.”
“Did someone steal it?”
“No.”
“Then why does it matter?”
He set the spatula down.
“Because it was the last thing my brother gave me.”
I hadn't expected that.
Graham opened a drawer, removed a small velvet box, and placed it between us.
Inside lay a vintage silver wristwatch.
Its crystal was cracked.
The hands had stopped at 9:17.
“I thought you said it was his watch.”
“It was.”
He gently lifted it.
“Miles gave it back to me three days before he died. Said he wanted me to have something of his if we ever stopped speaking.”
“Why would you stop speaking?”
Graham stared at the broken crystal.
“We disagreed about the waterfront project.”
“How seriously?”
“Seriously enough that I told him he was making a mistake.”
I waited.
But he closed the box.
“That's all I can tell you tonight.”
I felt the familiar sting of exclusion.
“You keep asking me to trust you while treating me like an outsider.”
“Because you are an outsider to what happened.”
“I'm your wife.”
His expression changed.
I regretted the words immediately.
Not because they weren't true.
Because I could see how badly he wanted them to mean nothing.
Graham moved the velvet box toward me.
“Keep it tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because Everett knows something about this watch that I don't.”
I looked down.
The silver backing was scratched near the clasp.
Someone had engraved three small characters beneath Miles's initials.
L-17.
“What's L-17?”
Graham shook his head.
“I don't know.”
A strange possibility occurred to me.
“Have you ever had the watch examined?”
“By a jeweler. He said the mechanism was damaged in the collapse.”
I lifted it carefully.
Something inside the casing clicked.
Not the delicate tick of a watch.
Something heavier.
Loose.
Graham heard it too.
He leaned across the island.
“Do that again.”
I tilted it.
Another click.
Using the edge of a clean butter knife, I carefully pressed against the slightly raised backing.
It shifted.
A tiny folded strip of paper slid onto the counter.
Graham stared.
Neither of us spoke.
I unfolded the paper.
There were only seven handwritten words.
IF I DIE, ASK AUDREY'S FATHER WHY.
May you like
And beneath them was a date.
Three days before Miles Vale died.
