Part 9
“I don’t want men outside the house.”
“One man. Plain clothes.”
“No.”
“Mara, our address is circulating.”
She stared at him. “How?”
He looked away.
“How?”
“The property company can be traced.”
“I thought it was private.”
“It was private from casual searches.”
“Not from people who know what they’re doing.”
“No.”
Mara stood too quickly and gripped the back of a chair until the room settled.
Julian moved toward her.
She raised a hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Naomi came in from the kitchen holding a dish towel. “What happened?”
“Our address is public.”
Naomi went to the window, moved the curtain half an inch, and looked out. “There are two cars now.”
Julian took out his phone. “I’m arranging security.”
Mara felt trapped by the certainty in his voice.
“This is what I was afraid of,” she said.
He paused.
“Not Vivienne,” Mara continued. “This. The second people knew, I stopped being a person and became your secret wife. Every article says foundation employee or pregnant assistant. No one cares what I do.”
“I care.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What do you want me to do? I cannot make the story disappear.”
“I wanted time.”
“And what would time have changed?”
“I don’t know.”
His frustration flashed. “Exactly.”
Naomi stepped between them without physically standing between them. She put the dish towel on the table.
“Both of you need to stop arguing as if the other one caused the internet,” she said.
Julian looked toward the window.
Mara pressed her hands over her face.
Naomi continued, “Security is practical. It is not surrender. A public statement is a separate decision. So is the foundation. So is your marriage. Stop stacking them into one impossible choice.”
Julian’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen. “It’s Andrew.”
“Answer,” Mara said.
Andrew, Julian’s college roommate and one of their wedding witnesses, worked as a crisis communications attorney in Washington. He had a dry voice and an inability to sound alarmed, which Julian found reassuring and Mara sometimes found infuriating.
He advised them to document threats, avoid reactive statements, secure the house, and prepare for the marriage certificate to become public because Rhode Island records could be requested.
“Can we prevent publication?” Julian asked.
“No,” Andrew said through the speaker. “Not lawfully, and trying would make it more interesting.”
Mara sat down.
“What about my employment records?” she asked.
“The foundation cannot disclose protected personnel information. That does not mean no one will leak ordinary details. Assume colleagues may speak, intentionally or otherwise.”
“What kind of statement do you recommend?”
“A truthful one that does not pretend your marriage is the issue.”
Julian glanced at Mara.
Andrew continued, “Confirm the marriage if you’re ready. State that Mara’s professional work predates the relationship and that neither of you will comment further during the independent investigation. Do not threaten anyone. Do not speculate about motives. Do not perform outrage for the public.”
“I’m not ready,” Mara said.
“Then do not issue it.”
Julian walked to the far end of the room.
Andrew’s voice softened. “Mara, waiting is allowed. Silence will not preserve privacy, but it can preserve your ability to choose your words.”
That distinction mattered.
After the call, Julian arranged a security officer for the night. Mara agreed on the condition that the officer remain inside an unmarked car and not approach neighbors.
The officer arrived after dark.
Mara watched from the upstairs window as he parked beneath the bare maple tree. He looked ordinary, middle-aged, wearing a brown winter jacket. He drank coffee from a paper cup and adjusted the car heater.
The sight made her feel both safer and less free.
At nine, Dr. Avery called. She had seen the news.
“Your blood pressure was elevated at the hospital,” she said. “I want you in the office tomorrow morning.”
“I’m fine.”
“That sentence has poor diagnostic value.”
Mara almost smiled.
“Any contractions?”
“No.”
“Headache? Vision changes?”
“No.”
“Good. Come at ten.”
After the call, Mara found Julian in the spare bedroom making up the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought you might want space.”
She leaned against the doorframe.
“Do you want space?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then stop guessing.”
He set down the pillow.
For a moment, neither moved.
“I’m angry with you,” Mara said.
“I know.”
“I’m also afraid you’ll leave the room every time I’m angry because you think that’s respect.”
His face changed.
“I don’t know the correct distance,” he admitted.
“There isn’t one.”
“That is difficult for me.”
“I know.”
Mara crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Julian remained standing.
“When my father was angry,” he said, “proximity made it worse.”
Mara had heard little about Julian’s father. Charles Mercer had died five years earlier, leaving behind a collection of obituaries praising his civic leadership and a family that changed the subject whenever his name arose.
“What did he do?” she asked.
Julian picked at a loose thread on the pillowcase.
“He did not hit us, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t.”
“He made rooms unsafe. Then he acted offended when people left them.”
Mara waited.
Julian sat beside her, leaving several inches between them.
“Vivienne learned from him,” he said. “So did I, in other ways.”
“You are not Vivienne.”
“No.”
“But?”
“I know what it is to believe that control is the same as protection.”
Mara looked at his hands.
“You arranged security without my agreement.”
“Yes.”
“You were right that we needed it.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make the way you did it right.”
“No.”
The quiet answer eased her more than a defense would have.
She rested her head on his shoulder.
He did not move for several seconds, as though afraid the permission might vanish. Then he leaned his cheek against her hair.
May you like
The next morning, the obstetrician found Mara’s blood pressure improved. The baby’s heartbeat was normal. Dr. Avery asked about sleep, appetite, stress, and safety.
When Mara described the public attention, the doctor recommended reducing exposure to media and connected her with a therapist who specialized in pregnancy after trauma.
