Elara was quiet, holding a simple bouquet of white hydrangeas—her mother’s favorite, she’d told me when we picked them up. She led me down a path, then off onto the grass, stopping before two well-kept headstones side by side.
Saby Marie VanceBeloved Mother, Wife, Songbird.
David Franklin VanceA Man of Quiet Strength.
She knelt, brushing a few stray leaves from her mother’s stone. I stood back, feeling like an intruder in a sacred space. Themagnitude of the moment pressed down on me. This was the core of her. The original loss.
“Hey, Momma. Hey, Daddy,” she said, her voice shifting into that of a daughter. “It’s been a minute. I brought someone.”
She glanced up at me, her eyes shining but dry. She reached a hand back. I took it, letting her pull me down to kneel beside her in the damp grass. The gesture was an inclusion that stole my breath.
“Mom, Dad, this is Julian.” She squeezed my hand. “Julian Hale. I’ve… I’ve told you about him, in my head. A lot.” A small, private smile touched her lips. “He’s the one. He’s intense, and he’s a little spoiled, and he bakes the ugliest cakes you’ve ever seen.” She looked at me, her smile deepening. “But he sees me. All of me. And he loves me anyway. Fiercely. The way Daddy loved you, Momma.”
My throat closed. I couldn’t speak. I just held her hand tighter, my thumb stroking over her knuckles—a silent vow.
She turned back to the stones. “He’s it for me. So… be nice to him, okay? Give him your blessing. He’s going to be your son-in-law.” She leaned forward and carefully placed the hydrangeas between the two headstones. “I’m happy,” she whispered, just to them. “Finally. Truly.”
We stayed there in the quiet for a long moment. The wind rustled the hydrangeas. I felt a profound, humbling sense of acceptance, as if the very air had shifted. She had brought me to her foundation. She was buildingusinto her history.
When she stood, she didn’t look sad. She looked settled.
“Okay,” she said, brushing grass from her knees. “One more stop.”
That stop was the head of the Ashworth estate. My body went rigid the moment the familiar drive came into view.
“Elara—”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice calm. “Just follow my lead.”
Grandpa Lionel received us in his sun-drenched conservatory, a jungle of orchids and the smell of fine tobacco.
“There’s my favorite granddaughter!” he boomed, ignoring me entirely to open his arms to Elara. She went to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Grandpa Lionel, this is Julian Hale.”
The old man’s gaze swung to me—assessing, with no hint of the warmth he’d just shown. “The one who broke my grandson’s face and half my family’s company?”
Oh shit,I thought.
“The one who loves your granddaughter,” I corrected, my voice level. I wouldn’t apologize for Alistair. Not to him.
To my surprise, Lionel let out a wheezing chuckle. “Fair enough. I don’t even like the boy enough to be mad, and I’m too old to care about the business.” He gestured to the wrought-iron table set for three. “Sit. Eat. The cook made that chicken you like, Elara.”
Over lunch, Elara steered the conversation. She talked about the girls’ home in D.C., about grant writing, and about the quiet satisfaction of the work, which somehow brought us to the talk about the business and the Ashworths.
Finally, Lionel set down his fork. “You know I had to step in,” he said gruffly, not looking at either of us. “After… everything. Couldn’t let the damn name go under completely. Bailed the idiots out. Put them on a tight leash, but… they’re still afloat.”
I felt Elara’s foot press gently against mine under the table. I looked at her. She signaled for me not to say anything.
“I know, Grandpa,” she said softly. “I expected you would. You were always kind to me. That hasn’t changed. And it won’t change my love for you.”
His eyes, suddenly bright with a sheen of moisture, flicked to her. The tough old patriarch was laid bare by her simple grace. “You’re a better person than any of us, girl.”
“No,” she said, reaching across to pat his gnarled hand. “I’m no saint. I just know now to hold onto what's good for me and let go of the rest.”
The rest of the lunch was… easy. We joked. Lionel told stories about him and her grandmother.
Driving back, the silence in the car was comfortable and full. I finally spoke. “You took me to your parents. Then your grandfather. What does it mean?”
