Chapter 38 Hey, Wife
Andrew nodded once, scanning the pods. “We’re good.”
They joined the slow-moving line of first-class passengers filing toward the forward door. Pete walked between them, small hand in Andrew’s left, other hand swinging Darth Vader. The jet bridge smelled of jet fuel and recycled air. Footsteps echoed on the metal floor.
At immigration, the line was short— privileged passports scanned in seconds. The officer behind the glass barely looked up.
“Purpose of visit?”
“Returning home,” Andrew answered evenly.
A stamp thudded three times. “Welcome back.”
Baggage claim was next. The carousel groaned to life. Andrew spotted their black hard-shells first, stepped forward, lifted them off one after another with a soft grunt each time. Amelia pointed out Pete’s small roller. Pete tugged it proudly, wheels rattling.
Customs was a breeze— green lane, nothing to declare. The officer waved them through with a bored flick of his hand.
Outside the terminal, the New York night air hit them— cold, damp, carrying the metallic bite of exhaust and distant salt from Jamaica Bay. Black Town Cars and yellow cabs idled in orderly rows, headlights cutting through the darkness. Andrew scanned the curb, spotted the black Uber SUV with the license plate he’d memorized. The driver— mid-forties, navy jacket, polite nod— already had the trunk open.
Andrew loaded the bags himself— two large ones, then Pete’s roller, then Amelia’s carry-on. The trunk closed with a solid thunk.
Pete stood beside the open rear door, looking up at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Dad… are you not coming with us?”
Andrew crouched immediately, knees cracking faintly against the pavement so he was eye-level with the boy. His large hands settled on Pete’s narrow shoulders.
“No, I’m not. But I’ll catch up with you real soon, okay?” His voice stayed steady, warm. He pulled Pete into a tight hug, one palm cupping the back of the boy’s head, fingers threading through soft curls. Pete’s arms wrapped around Andrew’s neck, Darth Vader pressed between them.
“Promise?” Pete mumbled into his father’s shoulder.
“Promise.” Andrew kissed the top of his head, then stood slowly, lifting Pete briefly so their foreheads touched for one heartbeat before setting him down.
He turned to Amelia. She stepped forward without hesitation. Andrew cupped her face with both hands— thumbs brushing her cheekbones— then leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss that started soft, then deepened for three full seconds, his fingers sliding into her hair at the nape. When they parted, both were breathing a little harder.
“Four days at most,” Amelia whispered, eyes locked on his.
“Four days.” Andrew nodded once, firm.
She searched his face for another second, then gave a small, satisfied smile. “Okay.”
Andrew stepped back. Amelia guided Pete into the back seat— booster already in place— then slid in beside him. Pete immediately pressed his face to the tinted window, small hand waving frantically.
“Bye, Dad! See you soon!”
Andrew lifted a hand, palm open. “Bye, bud. Be good for Aunt Amelia.”
The driver closed the door with a quiet click. Engine purred. The SUV eased away from the curb, brake lights glowing red in the dark night air, reflections shimmering on wet pavement.
Andrew stood motionless on the sidewalk, watching until the black vehicle disappeared into the flow of traffic— taillights blending with hundreds of others, swallowed by the vast, indifferent sprawl of Queens.
He exhaled once— long, controlled— then turned toward the taxi rank. A yellow cab pulled up instantly, headlights glaring. He opened the door, folded his long frame inside.
“Brooklyn Heights,” he told the driver, voice flat now, all warmth drained. “The corner of Montague and Henry.”
The cab pulled away. JFK shrank in the rear window— terminals glowing, planes lit against the night sky, the life he’d just left behind. Ahead: the bridge, Manhattan’s skyline rising like a promise and a threat, and Maggie waiting in the quiet mansion among the woods.
Four days.
He leaned his head back against the seat, closed his eyes, and let the city carry him home.
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'ABOUT 30 MINUTES LATER'
The massive oak front door— twelve feet tall, carved with subtle acanthus leaves, brass hardware gleaming under the porch lanterns— resisted Andrew’s push with a solid, unyielding thunk. He leaned his full six-foot-seven weight into it again, shoulder first. Nothing. Locked from the inside.
“Smart decision,” he whispered to the night air, one corner of his mouth lifting in faint, reluctant admiration. His breath fogged briefly in the cold Brooklyn woods that pressed close around the estate.
He straightened, reached for the illuminated doorbell— simple brass button set into a polished black panel— and pressed once. A deep, melodic chime rolled through the mansion’s vast interior, echoing off marble floors and high coffered ceilings.
In the kitchen— sleek white marble counters under warm pendant lights— Maggie sat perched on the island edge, legs dangling, bare feet swinging idly. A half-full bottle of chilled Evian sweated beside her phone. She was scrolling absently, thumbnail flicking, when the chime reached her. Her head snapped up. A smile broke across her face— sudden, bright, unguarded— transforming her tired features.
“That must be my husband,” she breathed, almost to herself. “Andrew.”
She slid off the counter in one fluid motion, feet slapping cold marble. No time for the slippers waiting by the door. She hurried through the butler’s pantry, across the echoing foyer, robe fluttering around her calves, heart already racing ahead of her steps.
At the front door she fumbled the deadbolt— click, click— then yanked the handle. The door swung inward on silent hinges.
Andrew stood framed in the porch light— navy coat open over his white shirt, collar unbuttoned, dark hair slightly tousled from the wind and travel. A half-smile curved his lips, practiced, careful, not quite reaching his eyes.
“Hey, wife.”