I can hear the workers arranging chairs in the courtyard. Their voices drift up to the attic window in soft echoes. They think I am sleeping in the guest room, resting before tonight’s celebration. They have no idea I am watching everything from this hidden place. They have no idea that the program for tonight’s event is resting on my lap. They have no idea that the program bears my name beneath the phrase they reserve for the dead.
My name is Celia Hartwell. I am the founder and chief executive of Hartwell Maritime Solutions, one of the largest shipping coordination firms along the eastern coast of the country. My husband, Brandt Hartwell, likes to say he retired from ambition the moment he married me. He calls himself “the gentleman of the house” with a laugh that others find charming. I used to find it charming too.
Two weeks ago, Brandt suggested that for our eleventh wedding anniversary, we should host a lavish gathering at our home in Brighton Ridge, a quiet coastal suburb known for its glass front mansions and manicured lawns. I rarely participate in social events these days because business occupies every waking hour, so I welcomed his enthusiasm.