Vivian was asking herself similarly unfamiliar questions. She had dated occasionally, usually men whose lives were as tightly scheduled as hers. Those relationships tended to end politely, as though two calendars had concluded there was no suitable time slot left for affection. She was admired, photographed, and often discussed. She was less often known. People introduced themselves to her with an understanding of what she could do for them. Very few seemed interested in what she liked once the office lights went out.
For years, she had accepted that as the cost of ambition. The experience with Callan complicated the bargain. Here was a man who had watched her enter a room wearing diamonds and an expensive blazer, then proceeded to ask whether the company's weakest clients were protected and whether its youngest engineers could speak without fear. He never asked for a favor he had not earned. He never treated her title as proof that she was right. The respect he offered came with a strange gift: permission to be fallible as long as she remained accountable.
In mid-December, Vivian encountered Callan by accident at a bookstore near Bryant Park. She had gone in to buy a gift for her niece before a family dinner. He was standing in the science section with June, who was holding two books and trying to persuade her father that both qualified as educational necessities. Snowflakes drifted against the windows, melting before they reached the pavement.
Vivian noticed him first. He wore a dark wool coat over a blue sweater, no tie, and looked younger without the strain he had carried through the executive corridor. June was balancing a book about insects on her head as though demonstrating gravity. When Callan saw Vivian, he stopped in genuine surprise.
"Ms. Ashford," he said.
"Vivian," she answered. "We're not in a meeting."
He smiled. "Vivian."
June looked up at the sound of a new voice. Her eyes moved from Vivian's coat to her face and then to the book in her hand.
"Are you the boss lady?" she asked.
Callan closed his eyes for an instant. Vivian laughed, a clear, unguarded sound that surprised him.
"I have been called that," she said, crouching enough to meet June's gaze comfortably. "But my brother usually calls me impossible."
June considered the answer. "Are you nice?"
Callan began, "June—"
"It's a fair question," Vivian said. She thought for a second before answering. "I try to be. Sometimes I make mistakes, and then I have to fix them."
June nodded with the gravity of a person evaluating serious evidence. "That's what my dad says."
"Then your dad and I agree about something important."
June held out the insect book. "Did you know some butterflies can taste with their feet?"
Vivian had not known. June explained with enthusiasm, growing more animated when Vivian asked an actual question instead of offering polite amazement. They spoke for several minutes about butterflies, bridge designs, and whether a dinosaur book belonged in the same category as a science book if the dinosaur was imaginary. Callan watched them, feeling something unfamiliar loosen in his chest.