“You’re on the board.”
“I abstained.”
“Why?”
“Conflict of interest.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re learning.”
“Painfully.”
I touched my mother’s name.
For years, I had thought success meant escaping the kind of life she lived.
No overdue bills.
No double shifts.
No counting tips underneath a restaurant table.
But standing there, I understood something I had missed.
My mother’s life had not been small because money was tight.
It had been enormous.
She had simply carried most of it quietly.
“Rue?”
I turned.
Belle was sitting on the lobby floor trying to tie a ribbon around a stuffed rabbit.
“What?”
“Can you help?”
I went to her.
The rabbit apparently required an elaborate bow.
Harlan stood above us.
“You know,” he said, “most people who encounter me unexpectedly don’t end up reorganizing my company’s redevelopment agreement.”
I tightened the ribbon.
“Most people probably don’t meet you while wearing a diner uniform and one hospital blanket.”
