The next week, she asked Reed whether Hartwell’s new caregiver policy actually worked for contractors.
He said no.
She changed it.
Months passed.
Winter loosened.
St. Louis entered the muddy uncertainty between cold rain and spring.
Reed’s life improved slowly.
The consulting money replaced several lower-paying warehouse calls.
He bought two new truck tires at the same time instead of one.
He stopped delaying dental work.
Juny’s inhaler no longer required a three-day argument with his budget.
He still repaired hotels.
Still did electrical jobs.
Hartwell did not become his identity.
That was part of why he stayed.
Vivien visited the Marlo periodically.
Nora teased her.
“You suddenly enjoy hotel coffee?”
“It’s excellent.”
“It’s acceptable.”
“Then perhaps the company.”
“Better answer.”
The friendship between Vivien and Reed grew around ordinary things.
Not rescue.
Not gratitude.
They talked after reviews.
Sometimes coffee.
Sometimes the walk to the parking lot.
Vivien told him about her father.
Thomas Hartwell had built the company and never learned how to stop working. Even during chemotherapy, he took calls from his hospital room until Vivien threatened to throw his phone into a sink.
“He would have liked you,” she told Reed.
“Why?”
“You would have irritated him.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“He respected resistance.”
Reed told her about Laya slowly.
Not the hospital first.
The garden.
Laya grew tomatoes badly and basil aggressively.
She sang the wrong lyrics to songs and refused correction.
She once drove forty minutes back to a restaurant because she believed the waitress had accidentally undercharged them.
“She sounds difficult,” Vivien said.
“Exhausting.”
“You loved her.”
Reed looked down at his coffee.
“Still do.”
Vivien did not flinch from that answer.
That mattered.
Grief was not a vacancy waiting for another person.
Reed appreciated anyone who understood.
Vivien never tried to become Juny’s friend quickly either.
The first real introduction happened because of weather.
Juny’s science fair was scheduled for a Thursday evening.
Reed finished at Hartwell early.
He went home.
Loaded the cardboard river-lock model into the truck.
Halfway to school, rain became violent.
By the time he reached the parking lot, water hammered the pavement.
The model was too large for Reed to carry under one arm without damaging the cardboard gates.
A black sedan stopped nearby.
Vivien stepped out.
Jeans.
Navy sweater.
Expensive coat.
No umbrella.
Reed stared.
“What are you doing here?”
“You left your folder at Hartwell.”
She held up a sealed document sleeve.
“You drove across town?”
“I was nearby.”
“You were not nearby.”
“No.”
Rain soaked her hair.
Juny opened the passenger door.
“Dad, the model!”
Vivien looked inside.
“Need help?”
Reed hesitated.
Juny shouted:
“Yes!”