Chapter 74: The Visit
The ten days that followed were a gentle, wind-blown dream. The edges of the initial visit, sharp with newness and unspoken tests, softened into a comfortable, shared rhythm. Edith, having pronounced them both capable after the shed and gutter incidents, seemed to relax into a quieter version of herself. She retreated to her studio for hours, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine seeping under the door, leaving them to their own devices.
They used the time. They drove to Alnwick, wandering the misty grandeur of the castle gardens, their fingers linked against the damp chill. They explored the fortified harbour of Berwick-upon-Tweed, sharing a bag of chips wrapped in paper, vinegar sharp in the salty air. Mostly, they simply existed in the cottage. Victoria read novels aloud by the fire, her voice a low, steady cadence against the thrum of rain on slate. Yvonne repotted some of Edith’s root-bound spider plants, her hands buried in rich, dark soil at the kitchen table. They took long, bracing walks with Hans along the cliff path, not speaking, just listening to the relentless chorus of the sea—a boom, a hiss, a sigh—until the cold bit through their coats and they turned for home, cheeks numb and hearts full.
It was a deep, quiet bonding, woven from shared silences and the simple act of being together in a place outside of time. The bundle of letters, now carefully packed in Victoria’s suitcase, felt less like a secret and more like a shared organ, a second heart they both now guarded.
On the morning of the eleventh day, the sky was a rare, clear cerulean. Victoria was at the kitchen window, grinding coffee beans for Yvonne’s pot, watching a tanker inch its way across the distant horizon. Yvonne was feeding the cats, a murmuring symphony of purrs and mews around her ankles.
A glint of sun on metal flickered in the periphery. Victoria’s hand stilled on the grinder. A car, a sensible, gleaming blue Volvo, was navigating the final, potholed bend of the coastal track that led only to Edith’s cottage and two other remote properties. It moved with a cautious, unfamiliar purpose.
Victoria’s spine straightened, a subtle hunter’s tension. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
Yvonne looked up, a tabby weaving between her legs. “What is it?”
“That’s my father’s car.” The words were flat, final. She abandoned the coffee grinder, wiping her hands on her jeans as if preparing for combat. “He hasn’t been up here in over a year. Claims the drive disagrees with his back.”
Edith shuffled into the kitchen, pulling a thick cardigan over her paint-splattered smock. She followed Victoria’s gaze. A slow, knowing smile spread across her wrinkled face. “Well, well. The prodigal son returns. And he’s brought Amanda. How… unexpected.”
The Volvo crunched to a halt on the gravel outside. The doors opened with precise, simultaneous clicks. David Parnell emerged first, tall and lean in a waxed jacket that looked brand new, his salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed. He surveyed the cottage with the air of a surveyor assessing a questionable investment. Amanda unfolded from the passenger side, her middle-length, wavy greying hair catching the wind. She wore a practical wool coat and a brightly patterned scarf, her eyes already seeking the window, her face alight with nervous curiosity.
Hans, from his spot by the hearth, let out a single, definitive woof.
“Right,” Victoria breathed out, a plume of white in the cold kitchen air. She reached for Yvonne’s hand, gave it a quick, hard squeeze. “Remember. He’s a boardroom bully. She’s an archivist of lives. And she,” Victoria said, nodding toward Edith, who was already opening the front door with a theatrical creak, “is the only artillery we need.”
“Victoria! Darling!” Amanda’s voice, crisp and academic, cut through the sea breeze as she hurried up the path, arms outstretched. She enveloped Victoria in a perfumed hug, then held her at arm’s length. “You look so well! The sea air, obviously. We were just in Durham for a conference, you see, and I said to your father, we simply must pop in, it’s barely a detour at all.” Her eyes slid past Victoria, landing on Yvonne with undisguised, joyful intensity. “And this must be Yvonne.”
David followed at a more measured pace, his handshake with Victoria brief, professional. “Victoria. This is a surprise.” His gaze, a cooler version of Victoria’s own, swept over the cottage’s weathered stone.
“Is it?” Victoria said, her voice dangerously pleasant.
“A wonderful one!” Amanda interjected, stepping past them into the cottage’s embrace. “Oh, Edith, the place looks marvelous. So… atmospheric.” She finally reached Yvonne, taking both of her hands. “Yvonne. I have heard so much. Finally. You run a café, Victoria says. How utterly charming.”
“Mum,” Victoria said, a warning note in her tone.
“It is charming,” Yvonne said, finding her voice. It was steadier than she felt. She met Amanda’s keen eyes. “It’s my home. It’s called Café Klee.”
“Klee. The painter. Angelus Novus,” Amanda said, delighted. “The angel of history, blown backwards into the future. What an intriguing name for a café.”
David had finally entered, ducking slightly under the low lintel. He gave Edith a stiff peck on the cheek. “Mother. You’re looking… well.”
“I’m old, David. Spare me the diplomacy.” Edith turned her cheek for the kiss, her eyes sharp. “Make yourselves useful. Kettle’s on. Yvonne, be a dear and fetch the good biscuit tin. The one with the royal wedding.”
The next hour was a masterclass in subtle tension, conducted over strong tea and shortbread. Amanda dominated the conversation, a friendly interrogator.
“And Berlin! So vibrant. But so far from home, Victoria. Do you miss consultancy? All that travel? The impact?” She sipped her tea, waiting.
“I’m still consulting,” Victoria corrected gently, stirring her own tea. “Just on buildings, not corporate mergers. The impact is more concrete. Literally.”
“Sustainable retrofits,” David said, the words sounding like a foreign, slightly distasteful concept in his mouth. He hadn’t taken off his jacket. “Niche market.”
“Growing market,” Victoria countered, her smile tight.
“And you, Yvonne,” Amanda pressed, leaning forward. “A café is such a personal venture. A hub of the community. Is the… economic model… stable?” She framed the question with academic concern, but the subtext—Is this a viable career for my daughter’s spouse?—hung in the air like woodsmoke.
Yvonne felt Victoria stiffen beside her. She placed her cup carefully in its saucer. “It’s stable. We have our regulars. We won an award recently. For women-led sustainable business.” She didn’t mention Victoria’s coaching on the books. That was theirs.
“An award! How lovely!” Amanda’s smile was genuine. David made a non-committal sound, his eyes scanning the room, lingering on a slightly crooked painting of a storm-tossed boat.
“The award sits next to the espresso machine,” Edith said suddenly, from her armchair by the fire. She hadn’t joined them at the table, preferring her perch. “Shiny thing. Looks a bit like a modern sculpture. Or a paperweight. I prefer the Klee prints myself.”
David turned his attention to his mother. “Speaking of stability, Mother. This roof.” He gestured upward. “The thatch looks… tired. Have you had a surveyor? The exposure here is extreme. I could put you in touch with a man in Sheffield—”
“I’ve got a man in Bamburgh,” Edith cut him off. “Puts a new coat on it every decade whether it needs it or not. Like your father with his Sunday shoes. It’ll outlast me, and that’s all that matters.”
“But the investment in the property’s value—”
“Its value is that it keeps the rain off my head and lets me see the sea,” Edith stated, her tone brooking no argument. “It’s not a stock portfolio, David. It’s my home.”
David’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. He took a biscuit.
The dynamic repeated itself, a familiar dance. David would attempt to steer the conversation toward practical, financial, or “sensible” concerns—the remoteness, the damp, Victoria’s “alternative” career path, the vagaries of the hospitality industry. Each time, Edith would deflect with a slice of earthy, unassailable wisdom or a pointed, witty remark that stripped his authority bare.
“You worry too much, David. It’ll give you wrinkles worse than mine.”
“A consultant for buildings? Sounds solid to me. Better than consulting for greed.”
“Yvonne mended my shed door and cleared my gutter. Can your man in Sheffield do that?”
Each time, David would fold. A slight deflation of the shoulders, a smoothing of the beard, a retreat into his tea. The formidable bank manager, reduced to a chastised boy in his mother’s kitchen. Amanda watched these exchanges with a mixture of amusement and pity, her attention always circling back to Yvonne, trying to decipher the woman who had inspired her daughter to cross a sea and change a life.
The opportunity came when Victoria and David were forced into a joint mission to retrieve a more comfortable chair from the spare room for Amanda. Edith, claiming a cat needed letting out, vanished into the garden.
Amanda immediately turned to Yvonne, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. “She seems happier,” she said, nodding toward the hall where Victoria had gone. “Less… coiled. Is she?”
Yvonne considered. “She is happy. She likes building things you can touch. She likes coming home to the same person, the same dog, the same plants.”
“The plants she mentions in every email.” Amanda’s smile was soft, real. “She sent a photo of a monstera once. I had to look it up. She said you talked to it.” There was no judgment, only fascination.
“It helps them grow,” Yvonne said simply.
Amanda reached out, touched the back of Yvonne’s hand where it rested on the table. Her fingers were cool. “You have good hands. Capable.” She paused, searching Yvonne’s face. “You know, he’s not a monster. David. He’s just… terrified of anything he can’t quantify on a spreadsheet. Her life has been a series of mysteries to him. This,” she gestured around, encompassing the cottage, the sea, Yvonne herself, “is the greatest mystery of all.”
From the hall, they could hear the low rumble of David’s voice. “…long-term security, Victoria. A partnership should provide stability.”
Victoria’s reply, cool and clear, carried. “It does. Just not the kind you measure in pension plans.”
Amanda raised an eyebrow at Yvonne, a silent see? Then she asked, her curiosity finally overriding politeness, “How did you meet?”
Yvonne told her. The story of the faulty grinder, the confident woman in the crisp shirt, the offer of help. She spoke of the café, the slow unfolding, the way Victoria remembered every regular’s name after one visit. She did not speak of the letters in the suitcase, or the gutters, or the look on Victoria’s face when she climbed down the ladder. Those were hers.
When Victoria and David returned, chair in tow, the atmosphere had shifted. Amanda looked at Yvonne not as a puzzle, but as a story she was beginning to appreciate. David, having lost another skirmish about long-term financial planning, seemed resigned.
Edith re-entered, a blast of cold air with her. “Right. You’ll stay for lunch. There’s soup. And no arguments.” She fixed David with a look. “You’ll have to make do. It’s not one of your boardroom luncheons.”
David, for the first time, smiled. It was a small, reluctant thing, but it reached his eyes. “No, Mother. It’s not.”
As they moved to the table, a precarious truce settled over the cottage. The war wasn’t over. It might never be. But for now, under Edith’s iron sky and with the soup steaming on the table, the lines were drawn. And Yvonne, her hand finding Victoria’s under the tablecloth, knew whose side she was on, whose home this was, and which walls—of stone, of thatch, of fierce, loving pride—would hold.
The soup was a thick, salty broth filled with barley and root vegetables Edith had pulled from her own garden that morning. They ate around the scrubbed pine table, the weak winter light straining through the window and pooling on the worn wood. Conversation, under Edith’s commanding gaze, became a tentative navigation of quieter waters.
“This is delicious, Mother,” David said, and the compliment seemed to surprise even him with its sincerity.
“It’s stewed seawater and old boots,” Edith replied, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “But it fills the hole.” She fixed him with a look. “Now. Berlin. You’ve been, what, twice? For conferences.”
David nodded, dabbing his lips. “The congress center. Efficiently run. The transport from Tegel was remarkably direct.”
Victoria caught Yvonne’s eye, a flicker of shared understanding. Tegel had been closed for years.
“And the business culture there,” David continued, steering into what he clearly considered a safe, analytical harbor. “There’s a reputation for discipline. Precision. Is that your experience, Victoria? In your retrofitting work?”
Victoria shrugged, chasing a carrot with her spoon. “The permits are a Byzantine nightmare. The craftsmen are artists who show up when the stars align. But when it works, it’s solid. It’s real.”
“But the potential,” David insisted, leaning forward slightly. “Germany’s commitment to green technology, the funding available for sustainable development… it’s a growth sector. You could position yourself as a specialist liaison. British expertise meets German engineering.”
“It’s not really about engineering, Dad. It’s about old buildings with bad plumbing and people who want to keep their Stuck ceilings while not freezing in January.”
“A market need, then. You identify the need, you provide the solution.” He turned to Yvonne, an attempt at inclusive diplomacy. “And your café, Yvonne. In a city like Berlin, foot traffic must be significant. The German preference for order, for quality—it must be an advantage.”
Yvonne thought of her mismatched chairs, the chaotic flea-market art, the leisurely regulars who nursed a single coffee for two hours while writing poetry. She thought of the broken grinder that had brought Victoria to her. “The quality, yes. The order… not so much. It’s more… alive than ordered.”
Amanda laughed, a bright, unexpected sound. “Oh, I can imagine. All those anarchists and artists. It sounds wonderfully vigorous.”
“It’s just people,” Yvonne said softly. “Some are efficient. Some are a beautiful mess.”
David opened his mouth, a retort about beautiful messes being poor business models doubtless on his tongue, but a sharp look from Edith sealed it. He took a sip of water. “I see,” he said, though he clearly didn’t.
The meal concluded with a heavy ginger cake that tasted of molasses and fire. As Yvonne began clearing plates, Edith pushed back her chair, its legs scraping the stone floor. “Right. Presents.”
“Mother, you didn’t have to—” David began.
“I didn’t have to. I wanted to. Sit.” She disappeared into the shadowy hallway that led to her studio, her footsteps slow but determined. They heard the click of a light switch, a rustle, a muffled sound that might have been a curse directed at a stubborn canvas. Victoria’s hand found Yvonne’s knee under the table, a quick press of anticipation.
Edith returned, maneuvering two large, flat objects wrapped in old bed sheets. She propped them carefully against the dresser. “For you, Amanda,” she said, unwrapping the first.
It was a seascape, but not a peaceful one. The canvas was a churn of blues and greys and violent whites, the sky and sea locked in a furious embrace. You could almost hear the gale screaming, feel the bite of salt spray. But in the lower corner, rendered in minute, perfect detail, was a small fishing boat, its lamp a single, unwavering point of yellow light.
Amanda’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes, behind her glasses, grew shiny. “Oh, Edith. It’s breathtaking. It’s… it’s the winter of ’95. The storm that took the Marietta.”
“The same,” Edith said, her voice gruff. “You always said you could feel that storm in your bones.”
“I can.” Amanda stepped closer, her scholarly detachment gone, replaced by pure awe. “I can feel it now. The violence, the… the tiny light. It’s everything.” She turned and hugged Edith fiercely. “Thank you.”
Edith patted her back, then gently extricated herself. She turned to the second painting. Her demeanor shifted, grew more still. She looked at David. “This one’s for you.”
She pulled away the sheet.
It was a portrait, but only abstractly. At first glance, it was a geometric construction of sharp, straight lines in charcoal black and steel grey—angles, triangles, a rigid grid that suggested structure, order, containment. But as the lines converged at the center, they fractured. They bled into one another, the charcoal smudging, the strict geometry dissolving into a chaotic, intricate swirl of warmer tones: a hint of burnt sienna, a shadow of deep blue, a single, fragile vein of gold. From this controlled chaos, a face emerged. It was undeniably David’s—the sharp cut of the jaw, the keen set of the eyes—but it was a face seen through a prism of its own internal weather.
The room held its breath.
David stood up. He walked to the painting, his steps slow. He didn’t speak for a long time, his back to them, his shoulders rigid.
“You see,” Edith said, her voice quiet in the fire-lit silence. “You’re all these clean, straight lines on the outside. Very impressive. Very sharp.” She moved to stand beside him, not looking at the painting, but at her son’s profile. “But they all have to meet somewhere. And where they meet, it’s not so neat, is it? It’s a bit of a mess. Like everyone else’s.”
David’s head was bowed. He was staring at the point where the orderly lines shattered into complexity. He reached out a finger, stopping just short of touching the canvas, hovering over that vein of gold amidst the grey.
“You…” His voice was rough, scraped clean of its managerial polish. “You see that?”
“I’m your mother,” Edith said simply. “I painted what I see.”
David continued to stare. His throat worked. He did not thank her. He did not critique the technique or question the artistic merit. He simply stood there, absorbing the brutal, loving honesty of it. The portrait was not a flattery. It was an excavation.
Finally, he took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from a place deeper than his lungs. “It’s…” He trailed off, unable to find a word from his professional lexicon that fit.
“It’s you, David,” Amanda whispered from behind him, her voice thick with emotion.
He nodded, just once. A sharp, barely perceptible motion. He turned from the painting, his eyes finding Edith’s. In them was a look Yvonne had never seen—a raw, unguarded acknowledgement. He looked young. He looked fathoms deep.
“I’ll need to… to get special packaging for the drive,” he said, the words practical, but his tone was anything but. “It can’t be risked.”
“I’ve some old blankets in the boot of my car,” Edith said, as if discussing the weather. “They’ll do.”
The moment hung, fragile and immense, in the cottage’s warm air. Then Hans, sensing a shift, heaved himself up from the hearthrug and nudged David’s hand with his wet nose. The spell broke. David flinched, then looked down at the dog. Slowly, he lowered his hand and scratched behind Hans’s wiry ear.
“Right,” Edith clapped her hands together, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet room. “Who’s for tea? The proper stuff. And I’ve a bottle of whisky somewhere for those who need something stronger.”
“I’ll find it,” Victoria said, her voice cutting through the thick silence. She moved to the low cupboard beside the hearth, her movements precise, seeking the familiar ritual of bottles and glass. The clink of crystal was a gentle percussion against the room’s held breath. She emerged with a bottle of single malt, its amber liquid catching the firelight, and five tumblers cradled in her other hand.
“A sensible suggestion,” David said, finally turning away from the portrait. He accepted the glass Victoria offered, his fingers brushing hers. No electricity, just a brief, neutral transfer. “Thank you.”
Edith took hers with a nod, settling back into her armchair with a soft groan. Amanda cradled hers, smiling at the caramel color. Yvonne accepted hers, the glass cool and heavy. Victoria poured a generous measure for everyone, including herself, and then leaned against the dresser, contemplating the liquid as she swirled it.
“To unexpected visits,” Edith said, raising her glass.
“To art,” Amanda countered softly, her eyes on David.
“To solid roofs and stubborn doors,” Yvonne added, the words slipping out before she could filter them.
A genuine laugh, short and surprised, burst from David. He shook his head, a faint, real smile touching his lips. “To that,” he said, and took a slow sip. His eyes closed briefly as the whisky’s heat traveled down.
Victoria watched him, the glass halfway to her own lips. She had seen him drink before—fine wine at dinners, champagne at corporate events. This was different. This was a man tasting warmth, not an investment. She took her sip, letting the peat smoke and heather bloom on her tongue, a taste of this landscape distilled.
“It’s good,” David said, opening his eyes. He looked at the bottle. “Islay?”
“Speyside,” Victoria corrected automatically, then braced for a dismissive comment about her palate.
He just nodded. “Sweeter than I expected.” He took another, smaller sip, savoring it. “Your grandmother’s influence, I assume. She always had a taste for the finer things masquerading as simple ones.”
“I taught her that,” Edith said, a spark of her old fire returning. “A good drink, a good view, a good argument. The holy trinity.”
Amanda laughed, settling deeper into her chair. “You certainly gave us the argument part today, Edith.”
“Someone has to keep you all from dissolving into spreadsheet and dust.”
The whisky did its ancient, reliable work. The fire popped. Hans sighed, rearranging himself at David’s feet, and this time, David’s free hand descended almost absently to rest on the dog’s head. The touch seemed to surprise them both, but neither moved away.
“So, this café,” David said, not looking at anyone, his gaze on the flames. The edge was gone from his voice. It was simply a question now. “The award you mentioned. What did it entail?”
Yvonne felt Victoria’s attentive stillness beside her. She set her glass down. “It was a local initiative. They judged on sustainability practices, supply chains, community engagement. We source from local bakeries, roast our beans ethically, use renewable energy where we can.”
“And the expansion,” David prompted. “Victoria mentioned you took over an adjacent space.”
“The old laundry room. It was damp and full of broken pipes. We… fixed it.” She glanced at Victoria, a shared memory of plaster dust and late nights passing between them. “Victoria designed the layout for airflow and light. I built some of the shelving from reclaimed floorboards.”
David’s thumb stroked Hans’s ear. “Practical,” he murmured. Then he looked at Victoria. “You designed it?”
Victoria shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just space planning. Maximizing utility.”
“It’s more than that,” Yvonne said, her voice firm. “She saw how to make it feel both new and old at the same time. She knows how things should flow.”
David considered this, his banker’s mind perhaps translating ‘flow’ into efficiency metrics he could understand. He gave a slow nod. “Good flow is critical. In a building, in a business.” He took another drink. “And the… the clientele? It supports the model?”
“The regulars are the model,” Victoria said, her tone losing its defensive edge, becoming explanatory. “Frau Metzger who comes at ten past three every day for her slice of Streuselkuchen and a pot of Earl Grey. The students who camp for hours with their laptops but always buy a second drink. The Thursday writing group that uses the new back room. It’s not abstract. It’s them.”
“They’re the spreadsheet,” Yvonne added softly.
David looked at her, then back at his glass. A long moment passed. “A spreadsheet of people,” he said, and the concept seemed to amuse him. He finished his whisky. Victoria, without a word, reached over and poured him another finger. He didn’t protest.
Amanda watched her husband, her expression soft and wondering. She began to talk about her conference in Durham, a funny anecdote about a mislabeled medieval manuscript. The story was meandering, academic, dotted with Latin terms. David listened, adding a dry comment here and there about the university’s funding administration, but it was no longer a critique. It was just talk.
Edith prodded the fire with a wrought-iron poker, sending up a shower of sparks. “Remember that summer you tried to teach me to balance the books for the pub, David? A disaster. Columns didn’t interest me. Only the contents of the bottles.”
“I recall,” David said, and now his smile was unmistakable, a crack in the granite. “You argued that goodwill and gossip were intangible assets I was failing to depreciate.”
“They are!”
The conversation unspooled, loosened by the whisky and the fire’s hypnotic dance. Stories surfaced, buoyed by the alcohol: David’s childhood attempt to build a raft that sank immediately, Victoria’s teenage horror when Edith taught her to mix a perfect Martini (“Education is key!”), Amanda’s first awkward visit to the cottage and her fear of the sheer drop beyond the garden wall.
Victoria listened, her glass warming in her hands. She watched her father laugh at one of Edith’s barbs, the lines around his eyes deepening not with stress but with genuine mirth. She saw him lean forward to hear Amanda’s quiet addition to a story, his hand still resting on Hans. He was not a stoic protector in this moment. He was not a stern banker assessing risk.
He was a father, a son, a husband. A man in a worn sweater by his mother’s fire, smiling at a story about a sunk raft. He was a member of the family, joking with everyone else. The realization was slow and profound, a quiet earthquake in Victoria’s chest. He was capable of that. He just needed some… proper talking-to. The proper talking-to had been a portrait, a gutted shed, a dog’s patient head under his hand, and this gentle, insistent whiskey.
It was a bizarre look for him. This unguarded, slightly rumpled version of David Parnell. She found she enjoyed it nonetheless.
The bottle was half-empty when Edith’s chin finally nodded onto her chest, a soft snore escaping her. Amanda gently removed the glass from her slack fingers. “We should be going,” she whispered, though the light was already fading outside. “It’s a long drive.”
David stood, a little unsteady, the movement stirring Hans. He looked at the portrait, now leaning against the dresser. “We’ll need to wrap it carefully,” he said, but his voice was tender, not clinical.
While Amanda fetched coats, David helped Victoria gently bundle the painting in the old blankets from Edith’s car. His large hands were surprisingly deft, padding corners, securing folds. “She sees rather too much, my mother,” he murmured, not looking at Victoria.
“Yes,” Victoria agreed, holding a corner taut.
He finished, his hands resting on the wrapped canvas. He looked at her, his gaze clear and direct in the dim hallway light. “You seem… settled, Victoria. Truly.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, and an acceptance.
“I am,” she said. And it was enough.
They stood in the cold, gravel crunching underfoot, as the Volvo’s engine purred to life. Amanda hugged Yvonne tightly. “Come to Sheffield. I’ll show you the archives. We’ll find you a plant for your café that has a scandalous history.”
David offered Yvonne his hand. She took it. His grip was firm, warm. “Look after her,” he said. The words could have been a command. Tonight, they sounded like a request.
“I will.”
He turned to Victoria. They hesitated for a second, then he pulled her into a brief, awkward hug. It was stiff, but it was real. “Drive safely,” he said into her hair.
“You too, Dad.”
And they were gone, the red tail lights dissolving into the coastal murk. Victoria and Yvonne stood shoulder to shoulder in the quiet dark, listening to the sea’s distant rhythm. The cottage behind them glowed, a cave of warmth and emptied glasses and the lingering ghost of a unheard laugh.
Hans nudged Victoria’s hand. She looked down at Yvonne, her face illuminated by the distant window light. “A spreadsheet of people,” she repeated, her voice wondering.
Yvonne leaned into her, the solid, grounding weight of her. “The most important kind.”