Steam from the herbal tea drifted up between us and clouded the glass top of the dining table beneath the Venetian glass chandelier.

Spencer didn’t lift his eyes from the single-spaced real estate report lying open next to his silver breakfast plate.

“The clinic sent the final statement for August,” I said, setting the porcelain saucer down by his hand.

Spencer straightened his silver cuff links, sliding the left one twice through his stiff linen cuff before he turned a page.

“Accounting takes care of the medical payments on the first of the month.”

“I’m not asking about the payment,” I said, my thumb resting on my left wrist where my wedding band used to sit before I quit wearing it.

“I’m asking why you weren’t in the waiting room at St.

Jude when Dr. Vance signed my discharge papers last month.”

He picked up his spoon, tapped the polished rim of his cup, and put it down again without drinking.

“The acquisition meeting on East Fifty-Seventh Street went past four.”

“The nurse called your office twice,” I said.

“Her notes say your assistant picked up at three thirty and told her you’d already left the building.”

Spencer’s face stayed perfectly smooth, the practiced corporate mask he wore when he negotiated commercial leases for Aldridge Luxe.

“Brielle was juggling three calls at once.

She misread my calendar.”

“You weren’t at the property site, either,” I said.

“I called the site manager from the back of the cab.”