Chapter 27
Two years after the night I came home early, the final major civil case closed.
The last Briarwood investor dismissed Hartwell Interiors after receiving forensic evidence and a settlement from seized assets.
Rebecca called with the news.
“That’s the last one.”
I sat very still.
“No more active claims?”
“None connected to Briarwood.”
“What about restitution?”
“That continues administratively.”
“Lauren?”
“Sentenced.”
I had deliberately not attended.
Her final sentence was longer than Daniel’s because of additional victims and broader conduct.
I read only the summary.
No articles.
No comments.
No photographs.
She no longer occupied enough space in my life to deserve live updates.
Rebecca laughed softly.
“You sound disappointed.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I think I expected fireworks.”
“Legal closure rarely has fireworks.”
“So what happens?”
“You go to work.”
I laughed.
Of course.
That afternoon, I walked through Hartwell’s office.
I no longer occupied the largest room.
We converted it into a project collaboration space.
My office was smaller.
Bright.
One wall covered in sketches.
Another held photographs.
Not awards.
People.
Staff picnics.
Mom at the scholarship dinner.
Megan’s children drawing on my whiteboard.
One photograph from the company’s first year.
I was twenty-six.
Terrified.
Standing beneath a crooked Hartwell Interiors sign.
I loved that photograph.
Tasha entered.
“We have a problem.”
I immediately tensed.
She noticed.
“Normal problem.”
I exhaled.
“Thank you for specifying.”
“A contractor installed the wrong flooring at the Charlotte hotel.”
“How wrong?”
“Very beige.”
“That sounds survivable.”
“Marcus says it’s a crisis.”
“Marcus thinks invoices with missing commas are crises.”
From the hallway, Marcus shouted, “I heard that.”
I smiled.
Normal problems.
I had never appreciated them before.
A delayed shipment.
A bad floor.
A client changing paint colors three times.
Problems nobody had to call detectives about.
Problems solved before dinner.
That evening, Andrew cooked at my house.
He had become part of my life slowly enough that I didn’t notice when his toothbrush stopped feeling foreign in my bathroom.
His daughter, Lucy, visited sometimes.
She was twenty-one, studying engineering, and dramatically unimpressed by adults.
I adored her.
After dinner, Andrew sat with me on the porch.
“I want to ask you something.”
My body immediately tightened.
He saw it.
“Nothing terrible.”
“That is exactly what people say before terrible things.”
He laughed.
“Fair.”
Then he took out a small box.
My heart stopped.
“Andrew.”
“Open it before panicking.”
Inside was not a ring.
It was a key.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“My place.”
“I thought you already offered this.”
“I did. You said no.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m not asking you to take it.”
I frowned.
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because I’m selling the apartment.”
“What?”
“I bought the unit downstairs.”
My confusion deepened.
He smiled.
“My daughter may move back after college. I want more space.”
“Okay.”
“This key is to a storage locker.”
I started laughing.
“You made this terrifying.”
“I realize that now.”
“What’s in the locker?”
“Something from your old house.”
My smile faded.
“What?”
“Jasmine helped me.”
That made me more suspicious.
We drove twenty minutes.
Inside the storage unit was my old kitchen table.
I stared.
“No.”
Andrew looked worried.
“Bad?”
“How?”
“When you sold the house, the buyers replaced it.”
“I know. I donated it.”
“To a furniture resale charity.”
“And?”
“Jasmine found the record. The table never sold. I bought it.”
I touched the wood.
The table had scars.
A burn mark from Megan’s Thanksgiving casserole.
A scratch from Daniel dragging a centerpiece.
Good memories.
Bad memories.
Family dinners.
Briarwood arguments.
The last meal Mom and I cooked before I sold the house.
“Why?”
Andrew spoke carefully.
“You once told me you were tired of feeling like everything from your marriage had to be contaminated.”
I looked at him.
“I thought maybe you should decide what the table means now.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“You bought me used furniture as a romantic gesture.”
“Yes.”
“It’s very strange.”
“I was afraid of that.”
I laughed and hugged him.
We brought the table home.
Chris complained about moving it.
Megan cried.
Mom touched the burn mark and said, “That casserole was not my fault.”
“It was yours,” Megan replied.
We placed the table in my dining room.
For weeks, I looked at it without knowing how I felt.
Then one Sunday, my whole family gathered around it.
Andrew.
Lucy.
Megan.
Chris.
Their kids.
Mom.
Uncle Robert.
We ate too much.
Argued about politics for exactly six minutes before Mom banned the subject.
Laughed.
Spilled wine.
Made new scratches.
And suddenly the table belonged to the present.
That night, after everyone left, Andrew helped me clean.
I touched the edge of the table.
“You were right.”
He looked suspicious.
“Can you repeat that?”
“No.”
“What was I right about?”
“I get to decide what things mean now.”
He smiled.
“So do I.”
“What does that mean?”
He took my hand.
“It means I love you.”
Everything inside me went quiet.
Not frightened.
Quiet.
I looked at him.
“I love you too.”
No fireworks.
No dramatic music.
May you like
Just two adults standing beside a scratched table.
It was perfect.
