Tulips on the kitchen table. Yellow and blue. Napkins folded nicely with polished silverware tucked inside. A wine and water glass at each place setting. Candles burn on the countertops made of marble.

A Greenleaf salad is made with a vinaigrette. Tiny orange slices adorn the top. Bread in a basket.

The salmon is plated under the warmer with caramelized carrots cut in small pieces with butter and honey drizzling down. A touch of parsley awaits.

It is seven in the evening, and there is no sign of him. No calls. No messages. No one has come through the front door. She tries calling him again.

This is Frank Webster of Webster and Howell. Please leave a message.

What to do? She thinks. I’ve left two, maybe three voice-mails as it is. She holds the phone to her cheek. Wipes her right hand on the apron she’s wearing and hangs up.

I’ve got it all planned, he says. I’ll put the money in a trust for the kids. Leave her a little. And that will be that.

Are you sure you want to do this? his accountant asks. You’re taking a big step. Risky.

Yeah. Just do it.

Peggy, it’s me. I’m calling from far away. I’m sorry I left you and the kids. I hope you have a good life. John will present you with the papers. I had to go. I had to go.

She listens to his voice. Throws the  cellphone across the room. This is done.