"You're early," he said.
"So are you."
"Farm habit. When somebody says ten, I assume they mean a few minutes before ten."
"Corporate habit," Victoria replied. "When somebody says ten, I assume they have another meeting at ten-thirty and will spend the first twenty minutes pretending they don't."
Ethan sat opposite her. The waitress, a woman named Doris who had watched him grow from a teenage boy into a father, came over with a coffee pot and gave Victoria a frank once-over. "You're the one who's been asking about farmers," she said.
"That's me."
"Good. Ask Ethan why he hasn't ordered pie in four months."
"Doris."
"The apple is fresh today," Doris said, ignoring him. "His late wife used to make him order it. Some people need reminding that lunch can include things they enjoy."
When she walked away, the space between Ethan and Victoria went quiet. He stared at the menu even though he knew it by heart. Victoria did not rush to fill the silence, and that was one of the first things he appreciated about her.
"I'm sorry," Ethan said at last. "Everybody in this town remembers Claire. Sometimes they forget I might be trying to get through an ordinary morning."
"You don't have to apologize," Victoria said. "She was your wife. People cared about her."
"They did." He folded the menu. "I still do."
Victoria nodded. The answer didn't make her withdraw, and it didn't require her to offer a carefully measured condolence. They ordered sandwiches and coffee, and when Doris returned she placed a slice of apple pie between them with two forks. "On the house," she said. "Before either of you argue, I've already decided."
They talked for almost two hours. Victoria described growing up in a house where every dinner conversation eventually became a lesson in risk, profit, or responsibility. Her father had loved her, but his affection often arrived disguised as a challenge she had to overcome. She had learned to be excellent at things she cared about and things she didn't, because disappointing Richard Hayes felt more costly than working herself into exhaustion.
"Did you ever want to do anything else?" Ethan asked.
"When I was sixteen, I wanted to be an architect. I liked the idea of making spaces people could actually live inside instead of simply managing buildings somebody else had built."
"Why didn't you?"
"I was good at the family business. And every year I got better at it, the question became harder to ask."
Ethan turned his coffee cup slowly. "Claire used to say a person could wake up one day and realize they were very good at a life they hadn't chosen."
"She sounds wise."
"She was. She was also terrible at folding maps and never put the milk back in the same place. I don't want you thinking she was a saint because she's gone. She would have hated that."
Victoria smiled. "What else should I know about her?"