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She glances around the carriage again. “Granddad would’ve loved this.”

“You talk about your grandparents a lot.”

“They raised me.”

That explains the way she speaks about them, as if they were her parents rather than people she visited on holidays.

“And your parents?” I ask.

She lowers her hand from the table. “They died in a car accident when I was three.”

Excellent choice of topic, Eric.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” she says. “Granddad’s harder to talk about right now.”

I know he died recently. For a moment, I consider changing the subject, but that would make her grief seem like something she needs to hide from me.

“Tell me about your grandparents.”

Her expression softens at once. “Grandma’s always been exactly the way she is now. Loud, stubborn, and sure she’s right about everything.”

“So you take after her.”

“Very funny.” She reaches for another piece of bread. “Granddad was quieter. Patient. A guest could complain to him for twenty minutes, and he’d listen as if there was nowhere else he needed to be. He taught me everything I know about running the Hartwell.”

“You miss him.”

“Every day.”

She doesn’t hesitate. I envy how simple her answer is. My father died this year too, but my feelings about him aren’t that clear.

I was always expected to become CEO, and Dad began preparing me early. Of the three of us, I spent the most time with him. We went to meetings, visited hotel sites, attended openings, and had dinners that usually turned into strategy sessions. From the outside, we probably looked close.

“Your father passed away recently too, didn’t he? Taking over Voss while you were grieving must’ve been hard.”

“It was complicated,” I say. “We weren’t close.”

Rachel doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She waits, leaving me to decide how much to tell her.

“He was proud, bitter, and brilliant at running Voss. The company always came first, even before his sons.” I look at her. “I guess you might know what that’s like. The Hartwell meant everything to your grandfather too.”

Rachel gives me a small smile, but I see sympathy in it, not recognition. Her grandfather prepared her to run the Hartwell, but from the way she talks about him, she never had to wonder whether she was his granddaughter first.

Dad trained me to lead Voss, but I was never sure he saw a son beneath the successor. He gave me little reason to think he did.

I’m glad Rachel never had to ask herself the same question.

“What about your mother?” she asks, her tone lighter.

The question finds even worse ground.

“She left when I was seven.”

Her brow creases. She waits again, but I have no desire to unpack the rest of that history over dinner. After a moment, she seems to understand and lets the subject rest.

“Why are you single?” I ask.