“So there’s a family tradition.”
“She taught literature.”
“That explains you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You argue like somebody who grew up around teachers.”
Victoria bumped his shoulder with hers.
Her mother had died after a long illness too.
Not the same as Ethan’s wife.
Similar enough.
For the first time, Ethan talked more openly about the years after his wife’s death.
He described hospital schedules.
The way Lily, only three then, had understood something was wrong but not why.
The day he came home from the funeral and realized every room contained evidence of another person.
Shoes.
Hair ties.
A half-read book.
A coffee mug.
A grocery list in handwriting he would never see added to again.
Victoria listened.
No advice.
No inspirational statement.
That mattered.
Ethan’s wife had been named Grace.
Grace Brooks had been twenty-nine when she met Ethan at the Cedar Ridge county fair.
She was selling raffle tickets for the library.
He bought five because he wanted to keep talking.
He won a blender.
Grace teased him for years that their marriage existed because of kitchen appliances.
They were married seven years.
Lily was three when Grace died.
“I thought the worst part would be being alone,” Ethan said.
Victoria waited.
“It wasn’t.”
“What was?”
“Watching Lily forget little things.”
Victoria’s throat tightened.
“Like what?”
“The sound of her voice.”
“Some expressions.”
“She knows her mother from pictures.”
“From stories I tell.”
“But memory changes.”
“That scared me.”
“Still does.”
Victoria looked toward the farmhouse.
Lily’s bright jacket hung over the porch railing.
“You’re keeping her mother alive for her.”
“I’m trying.”
“That counts.”
Ethan looked at Victoria.
Something quiet passed between them.
After that, he stopped thinking of her as the billionaire who occasionally visited his farm.
She became Victoria.
The change frightened him enough that he pulled away for two weeks.
He stopped answering casual texts quickly.
When she asked if she could come by Saturday, he said he was busy.
He was.
But not that busy.
Victoria understood.
She did not push.
Richard Hayes did.
He called Ethan directly.
Ethan nearly ignored the unknown number.
“Ethan Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“Richard Hayes.”
“Oh.”
“I hear you’ve been corrupting my daughter.”
Ethan leaned against the kitchen counter.
“I think you started this.”
“True.”
“What do you want?”
“To thank you.”
“For what?”
“She took a Sunday off.”
Ethan waited.
Richard continued.
“She has not voluntarily taken a Sunday off since the Obama administration.”
“That seems unhealthy.”
“I’ve been saying that for years.”
Ethan laughed.
Richard became quieter.
“Don’t disappear because you think the money makes this impossible.”
Ethan’s expression changed.