He nodded. “The one you hate talking about.”
“I don’t hate talking about it.” She did, a little. It had been the last thing she’d completed before Bryn died. “It just feels like part of a different life.”
He waited. He was getting good at that. At letting silence stretch until she filled it with something real.
“There’s also…” She stared at her phone again, thumb resting on the screen without unlocking it. “There’s the insurance money.”
His brows drew together, but he didn’t speak.
“When Bryn died,” she said, words awkward and thick, “she had a small life insurance policy through work. Not huge. Enough to help with funeral costs and a cushion. She hadn't changed my parents’ names as the beneficiary when she and Charlie married. My parents refused to touch it. They insisted it go to me. ‘For your future,’ my mom said. I offered it to Charlie for the kids, but he said Bryn would love that I have it, and he was fine, financially. The money wouldn't bring her back. I put it in an account and haven’t touched a cent.”
“Because?” he asked gently.
“Because spending it felt like… stealing from her.” She blinked hard. “Like I’d be cashing in on the worst thing that ever happened to us.”
He reached for her hand and laced their fingers. “Money doesn’t know where it came from,” he said. “You do. And you get to decide whether it just sits there like a rock in your pocket, or whether you use it for something that would’ve made her smile.”
Bree swallowed again. “She would’ve liked the studio idea.”
“Then maybe,” he said, squeezing her hand, “using some of it to build a studio with her name on the door is not stealing. Maybe it’s the exact opposite.”
She let that sink in; the idea of a space where Bryn existed in more than framed photos. A place where Bree could paint, and maybe hang one canvas that never went to a gallery; one that stayed because it belonged there.
“I could paint a series about her,” she said slowly. “Not just portraits. Pieces of her. Her boots by the door. The coffee mug she stole from that diner we loved. The way she left paint on everything she touched.”
“I’d stand in line to buy that,” Hank said quietly.
“You’re biased.”
“Sure,” he said. “But I also know what good art feels like. The warehouse upstairs with your work, people climbing those stairs to see pieces of your heart on the walls? That’s worth betting on.”
She exhaled. “Okay. So, finances. If we pool what you’ve got, what I’ve got, and whatever the mayor can conjure up in grants, we could probably manage a modest renovation and a few months of breathing room.”
“Throw in some sweat equity,” he said, “and favors from friends like Gabe, and we’re in better shape than most.”
“Your family,” she said quietly. “How are they going to feel about you planting yourself in Copper Moon instead of, I don’t know, buying a house back home and racing out of there?”
He smiled. “My mom’s initial reaction will be to ask what the healthcare options are in town and whether there’s a decent grocery store that sells real vegetables. My brother will want to know if there’s space for a lift with his name on it. My sister will remind me she called it, because she always knew I wasn’t done with small towns.”
“And your dad?” she asked.
His gaze flicked away for a second, just long enough for her to see the shadow. “He’ll be fine. He likes a project. He’ll probably send unsolicited advice about shop organization just to feel useful.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I say it like I know I’m going to be rearranging wrenches at midnight to avoid arguments.” He looked back at her. “What about your parents?”
Bree’s stomach did a slow flip. “That’s the part I’m still working out. They’ve already lost one daughter. The idea of the other one living eight hours away instead of two… that’s not going to be their favorite news.”
“You’re not exactly close by now,” he pointed out. “And Copper Moon’s an actual town with actual people who care whether you make it home at night. That counts for something.”
“I know.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “But it’s not just distance. It’s… permanence. I came here to breathe for a week. Not build a life. In their heads, I’m still going home when the race weekend is over.”
“Then maybe,” he said, tone gentle but firm, “it’s time to tell them that home shifted a little.”
She made a face at him. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” he said. “But you’re good with hard things. You stayed when everyone else left the paddock yesterday. You saw something wrong, and you spoke up. You can have a tough conversation.”
