I touched the edge of the woven wool trim without raising my eyes to him.

“You filed for divorce three days ago.”

“A formality,” Patrick answered, resting his hip against the counter.

“I want to settle this like sensible adults.

I’m ready to write you a cashier’s check for fifty thousand dollars today.”

He pushed a color catalog toward me, opened to a page of handcrafted oak cribs.

“With that kind of money you could rent a nice two-bedroom apartment near the park,” he said.

“Where’s the money coming from?” I asked.