THE HEIR'S REVENGE

chapter 85

Outside on Fenwick Street the Sunday morning was doing its usual things. People walking slowly, a couple with a dog and there was a man on a bicycle who rang his bell cheerfully at nothing in particular.

"Yemi," I said.

She looked at me.

"I want to tell you something," I said.

She waited.

"This year has been the hardest year of my life and also the best year of my life," I said. "Both of those things are true at the same time." I looked at her directly. "And you are one of the reasons the second part is true."

She looked at me.

She did not deflect it or make it smaller or reach for the professional composure she used to reach for automatically.

She just let it land.

"Ethan," she said quietly.

"Yes."

"I am one of the reasons," she said. "But Lily is the biggest reason."

I smiled. "Yes. Lily is the biggest reason."

"Good," she said. "As long as we are clear about that."

"Very clear," I said.

She smiled back.

We stayed for two and a half hours.

We talked about her family. About my plans for the Blackwell Corporation after the trial. About the foundation in my mother's name that Henry was already helping to set up. About small things and large things mixed together the way good conversations mix them without you noticing the transitions.

At some point she told me about a trip she had taken years ago before she started this job. A month traveling alone through three countries with one bag and no fixed plan. She described a morning sitting on a wall in a city she could not find again on a map watching the sun come up over rooftops.

I told her about the first night in the Blackwell mansion. About walking through the rooms in the dark because I did not trust that it was real. About standing in the kitchen at two in the morning eating cereal because I could not sleep and thinking that every morning I might wake up and find myself back on the park bench.

She listened to that completely.

Then she said: you never have to go back there.

I looked at her.

I mean that in every way, she said. Not just the park bench.

I understood what she meant.

I nodded once.

We walked out together at half past eleven.

The morning had gotten brighter while we were inside. The cold was still there but the sun was working against it and mostly winning.

We stood on the pavement outside Fenwick Street.

"Tomorrow," I said.

"Tomorrow," she agreed.

We looked at each other.

She reached out and straightened the collar of my jacket. A small precise adjustment. Her fingers were there for just a second.

Then she stepped back.

"You are going to be okay," she said. "I know I keep saying that."

"Keep saying it," I said.

She smiled.

"You are going to be okay," she said again.

Then she said goodbye and walked away down the street.

I stood on the pavement for a moment. I wanted to stay for a while, to smile at me and her voice, echoing that every thing will be fine.

The sun was on the buildings opposite. The city was going about its Sunday morning business. Somewhere behind me a coffee shop door opened and the warm smell came out briefly and then the door closed again.

Tomorrow the trial started.

Tonight I was going home to a warm house and a six year old who had white flowers for my mother and a rabbit with emerald eyes and enough opinions for three people.

Tonight there was dinner and probably a drawing and almost certainly a conversation about pencils.

Tonight was ordinary.

I walked back to the car.

I was smiling the whole way.

And tomorrow I will be ready.

Because I had been ready for a long time.

I just had not known it until right now on a Sunday morning on Fenwick Street with the sun coming through the cold air and everything finally exactly where it was supposed to be.