She intended to force him into battle if that was what it took. But what he did next completely disarmed her: He placed a hand over hers, the left one, and met her eyes with compassion. She felt suddenly hopeful. She had finally gotten through to him.
"Greta," he said gently, "everything I'm doing is for us. The things I'm making happen at work are very complex and important, and these things will change our lives forever." He patted her hand and smiled. "Soon it will slow down a little," he said, tossing down the rest of his wine.
But his words sounded shallow and condescending. Her hopes of understanding disintegrated and the throb in her left hand returned with renewed force. She snatched her glass and finished her wine in one quick swallow. She poured another. Was there no way to get through to him? To make him see how close he was coming to destroying them? "Matthew, it's ruining us, and you're letting it happen." Nothing. She went for broke. "Don't you see, I'm trying not to let anything bad happen to us."
He seemed undaunted by her warning. Wiping his lips with his napkin, he got up, walked around behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Darling," he said, "I have to get back to work now. Nothing bad will happen to us. I won't let it." Then he kissed the top of her head and left the room.
She turned her head and looked out at the pond again, and whispered to her reflection in the window.
"Then I will."
* * *
"Poppyshit!" Byron shouted, waving his glass at Peter, who sat across the table. "The problem with kids today is their parents!" He set his glass down firmly as if challenging anyone to dispute his opinion.
"Dear," Grace interrupted, gently touching her napkin to her upper lip with raised eyebrows at her husband.