Gull House had a blue front door, a brass bell that didn't work, and an innkeeper who opened the door before Ben could decide whether to knock.

"The bell is decorative until Thursday," she said. "June Park. You must be the Hales."

She was a compact woman with gray hair cut at her jaw and a cardigan carrying evidence of a recent encounter with flour. Behind her, the hallway smelled of wood polish and something baking.

"Is the oven decorative too?" Ben asked.

"Only if the cake fails. Come in."

Audrey liked her immediately, then warned herself against turning every pleasant stranger into a sign that this trip would work.

June showed them the breakfast room, the shelf of games, and the little kitchen guests could use in the evenings if they cleaned up afterward. The upstairs corridor ended in a tall window looking toward the sea.

Their room faced west. Beyond the glass, the beach opened in a pale curve beneath low clouds. Two armchairs stood beside a lamp. There was a writing desk, a wardrobe, and one large bed with a blue quilt.

Of course there was one bed. They had booked it as a married couple going away for their anniversary. Which was exactly what they were.

Audrey still felt the room asking a question.

June gave them the key, explained breakfast, and left without telling them to enjoy a romantic escape. Audrey was grateful for that too.

Ben put the bags near the wardrobe.

"The view is better than the pictures."

"Usually it's the other way around."

He glanced at the bed, then at her.

"If you'd rather have your own room, I can ask."

His voice was careful, but not offended. She knew it had cost him something to make the offer plainly.

"I don't need you to sleep down the hall," she said. "I just don't want us to assume anything."

"Okay."

"Sharing a room doesn't mean we've solved it."

"I understand."

They unpacked on opposite sides of the wardrobe. Ben hung up the shirts he had chosen without her help. Audrey put her shoes in a neat row beneath the desk, then moved them when she realized they would be in the way of the chair.

For a few minutes they were simply two people settling into a room, familiar with each other's small habits. His wallet went on the nearest flat surface. Her glasses went into their case. He opened the window an inch, then asked whether she was cold.

She wasn't.

They walked down to the beach before dinner. Morrow Bay was a small town of weathered porches, narrow side streets, and shops selling objects nobody needed until they were on holiday. Audrey bought nothing. Ben stopped outside a bicycle rental place, read a hand-lettered sign, and kept walking without suggesting an itinerary.

On the beach, the wind pressed her coat against her back. He moved to the seaward side of the path, then caught himself smiling.

"What?" she asked.

"I was going to tell you it's windy. Useful information you might not have discovered."

"Your expertise is invaluable."

They stood watching the water. A woman farther down the sand was throwing a ball for a dog that consistently brought back a different object.

Audrey put her hands in her pockets.

"Do you remember the dinner?" she asked.

Ben turned. "Which dinner?"

"When the corridor project was approved. I booked a table. I told you three times."

His face went still.

"Yes."

"You arrived an hour late and spent the first ten minutes telling me what had gone wrong at the shop."

"The supplier—"

He stopped.

"I know what happened at the shop," she said. "I heard the whole story."

He looked out at the water. The wind lifted his hair, making him seem suddenly younger and more tired.

"You were trying to tell me about something important."

"I wanted you to be pleased with me. For me. I wanted to tell you what it had taken, and have you listen as if you hadn't already decided you understood my work."

"I was pleased. I told people at the shop."

"You didn't tell me."

The words surprised her by hurting again. She had turned the evening into a practical grievance because a practical grievance was less exposing than admitting she still wanted her husband's admiration.

Ben moved his hand toward hers, then let it rest by his side when she didn't reach back.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I remember being relieved you weren't angry when I got there. I think I stopped paying attention after that."

"I wasn't trying to punish you by bringing it up now."

"I don't think you are."

They walked farther along the sand, leaving enough space for the conversation to settle. Audrey didn't feel better exactly. She felt less crowded by things she had not said.

At dinner, they chose a small café where the tables were close and the food came on mismatched plates. Ben asked about the corridor project. She stared at him for a moment.

"You don't have to make up for the whole evening right now."

"I know. I'd still like to hear about it. If you want to tell me."

So she did. Not every technical detail, but the part that mattered: the difficult meetings, the compromise she had nearly refused, the moment the team found a design that served people who were usually discussed as an afterthought.

He asked two questions that showed he had listened to the answers before them.

When her food arrived, she discovered she had been speaking for ten minutes without feeling the need to summarize herself.

Back at Gull House, a message from Max waited on both their phones. Happy anniversary trip. Please don't send ninety photos of the same rock.

Ben took a picture of the view and typed, This one is a different rock.

Audrey laughed. They sent it together and put the phones away.

Before bed, she sat in one of the armchairs while he stood by the window.

"How did we get so good at telling everyone we're fine?" she asked.

He turned from the dark glass.

"Practice, probably."

She nodded. It was not a beautiful answer. It was believable.

They went to bed with the window slightly open. He asked whether she wanted his arm around her. She said not tonight, then reached across the small space between them and touched his hand.

He held it without pulling her closer.

In the dark, the sea sounded patient in a way that had nothing to do with either of them.

Audrey lay awake for a while, aware of her husband's breathing, the warmth of his fingers, and the fact that she had said no to one thing without having to say no to everything.