Chapter 10 - The Diner Off the Highway
I came out of the foundation tower at five-forty and he was already there, leaning against my car like he had every right to wait.
The parking lot was almost empty. The sky had gone flat gray behind the highway. My copy of the transfer sheet was folded in my purse, and my hand stayed on the strap. Daniel held a paper coffee cup in one hand and a small white bag in the other. He smiled when he saw me.
"You left your sweater at the apartment," he said. "I brought soup. The good kind, from that place on Fifth. No tomatoes."
I didn't take the bag. "How did you know I was here?"
"Carol's assistant mentioned it." He set the coffee on the roof of my car. "Can we talk? Not at home. Somewhere neutral. Please."
I should have said no. But the highway hummed beyond the fence and I was tired of being followed in circles, so I nodded toward his car. He drove. I let him, because my lower back ached and I didn't want to argue in an open lot. We ended up at the diner off Route 9, the one with the cracked vinyl booths and the pie case that buzzed.
Inside, it smelled like grease and coffee. A waitress pointed us to a back booth. Daniel slid in across from me and ordered decaf for both of us without asking. Old habit. He used to do that in college and I used to think it was sweet.
He pushed the white bag toward me. "Eat something first. For the baby."
I left it closed. "Say what you came to say."
He leaned forward, beard catching the fluorescent light. His eyes were wet in a way I hadn't seen since the gala. "I'm sorry for what I said that night. At the table. You know the words." He glanced down. "It was cruel. You didn't deserve that, especially not in front of all those people. I was drunk and embarrassed and I took it out on you."
That was the apology. For the words. For Sua, Luca, voce e gorda. Not for anything else.
"I've replayed it every night," he went on. "The laugh. The way you looked at me before you picked up that bowl. Maya, I love you. We can fix the public part. Mom knows people. We do a photo at the clinic, a donation, it goes away."
The waitress set down the mugs. I wrapped my hands around mine to stop them shaking.
"Daniel," I said. "Did you sign my name on the gala transfers?"
He blinked. The wet look thinned. "What?"
"The transfers. From the donor account. My initials are on them. Did you sign them?"
A truck passed outside and rattled the window. He picked up a sugar packet and tore it, poured it even though he'd ordered decaf black for years.
"There was a shortfall," he said quietly. "Back in March. The catering deposit, the auction guarantees. Your mother-in-law— Carol was under a lot of pressure from the board. She needed the books to look clean before the gala. I moved some money around to cover it. I was going to put it back after pledges came in."
"With my signature?"
"I practiced it once," he said. "It wasn't supposed to— she kept pushing. You know how she is. If I didn't fix it, she said we'd lose everything. The apartment, the foundation. I didn't want you stressed while you were pregnant."
I stared at him. "So you used me to fix it."
"It was temporary," he said fast. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. It wasn't stealing. It was borrowing. If anyone asks, we just say you knew. That you approved it as a family decision. Then there's no story."
There it was. Not a reset. A cover.
I pushed the coffee away. "No."
"Maya—"
"No," I said again. "I won't say I approved something I never saw. I want the full records. Every transfer, every account, from March until now. Not your summary. The real ones."
His jaw tightened. The softness from a minute ago was gone. "You're going to do this now? Here?"
May you like
"Yes," I said. I stood up, purse over my shoulder, the folded copy pressing against my hip. "You apologized for the insult. You haven't apologized for using me. Bring me the records, Daniel. All of them. Then we'll talk."
I left the soup on the table and walked out into the cold air by myself.
