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“In many ways, yes. In other ways, not really. Mom is . . . old-fashioned. She clings to the yesteryears like it’s her duty, regardless of the situation at hand. Dad was like that too. Had more old antique farm tools in his barn than he—or I, now—knew what to do with.”

“So where are they now?”

“At the moment? Still at the farm. Along with every other piece of junk I inherited.” He smiles lightly. “I have four coffeepots to choose from for the morning commute. Because clearly that’s what every person needs on his countertop.”

I pause. “So you’ve moved into his house? Full of his things?”

“For now, yes.”

I look out the window, surprised at his answer. Never in my life would I have imagined Will Pennington to be the kind of man who went from posh NYC living to some farmhouse out in the country. In fact, more than once on my downtown walks, I’ve looked up at some high-rise condo building full of glass windows and exposed brick and glittering chandeliers and wondered if it was his. I don’t know why, exactly. I just assumed.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “You don’t live in an apartment downtown.”

An amused question forms in his eyes as I ask, but he shakes his head.

“You don’t have some sort of waiter hanging out in the lobby ready to take your clothes to the dry cleaners.”

His grins slightly as he again shakes his head. “They’re concierges. And no.”

“Why did I think you would?” I say aloud, honestly a bit puzzled.

“Because you think I’m elitist, from the sound of it,” he says, stifling a chuckle as he makes a turn.

“No, because you came from the City,” I say, resolved. “In my mind, everyone who works in publishing in the City must be the most glamorous person alive. Eats sushi every night.”

“Well, we are a sushi-loving people,” he concedes.

“Goes to the newest posh jazz club to drink fifteen-dollar margaritas.”

“Oxford commas, actually,” he corrects. “And they’re more like twenty-three with tip.”

“See? Glamorous.”

We sit in silence at the light for a few moments, flurries dusting the windshield.

“Actually, I like the change. I love the City, but my heart was always here. Besides, Mom needed me.”

I raise a brow. “Your mother? But . . . didn’t they . . .”

He seems to have expected my follow-up question. “They broke things off years ago but then . . . never truly followed through.”

My incredulous brow rises farther. “You mean they . . . what? Had different houses but stayed together?”

Will shrugs. “I guess they just never really let go.”

I sit back in my seat, picturing it. The couple who were so different on paper—he with his multiplying coffeepots, she with her love of old books and dictator-like demand for obedience—unable to ever fully cross the other off the list. Unable to fully and truly take the other’s name off the electric bill. To blot them from their address book. And instead to find themselves in the evenings suddenly in the driveway of the other’s home.

It was sweet, in its own way. Sweet and sad.

Will takes another turn. “She doesn’t let on, but Dad’s death has been hard on her.”

I smile softly. So he’s also here for his mother. To be with her in her time of grieving. “I’m glad you can be there for her.”

“Me too.”

The light turns, and the cars start moving. Will hits the gas, and we continue to chug along.

“So,” I say, more to relieve us of the quiet than from actual interest in the conversation topic. “I believe you wanted to talk about ideas for the company.”