I took a slow breath.
“Her name was Emily.”
Vanessa nodded.
“She was a school librarian.”
I smiled faintly.
“She loved books, terrible dancing, and buying plants she couldn't keep alive.”
Vanessa laughed softly.
I told her about the first time we met.
At a garage fundraiser.
Emily brought an old station wagon in for an inspection, then spent twenty minutes arguing that the repair should cost more because I'd underestimated my labor.
Vanessa smiled.
“She sounds like she would've liked me.”
I considered that.
Then laughed.
“Probably.”
The thought surprised me.
But it didn't hurt.
For the first time in a long time, imagining someone new meeting Emily didn't feel like a betrayal.
It felt like two good people might have enjoyed knowing each other.
Later, Vanessa told me about her own life.
Her father died when she was twenty-two.
He had built a regional investment firm that eventually became part of Northstar Equity Partners.
Vanessa inherited a controlling interest, but that didn't mean everyone welcomed her leadership.
Some executives treated her as a wealthy daughter who'd been handed a company rather than a capable woman who'd spent more than a decade studying finance and building businesses.
She had fought to prove herself.
Worked unreasonable hours.
Learned every major division.
And eventually became CEO.
But wealth came with its own kind of loneliness.
“When people discover what I do,” she said, “the conversation changes.”
I nodded.
“How?”
“Some become nervous. Some start praising everything I say. Others immediately begin explaining how I should invest in their brilliant idea.”
I laughed.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She studied me.
“You didn't do any of that.”
I looked toward her.
“Didn't know who you were.”
“I know.”
She smiled sadly.
“That's what made it so nice.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then I asked about the Firebird.
Her expression changed.
Not with embarrassment.
With affection.
“It belonged to my mother.”
I looked up.
“She bought it used when she was nineteen. Drove it across half the country. Met my father while getting the tires replaced.”
I laughed.
“That's a good story.”
Vanessa smiled.
“Apparently, she argued with him about tire prices for nearly an hour.”
“Sounds like your family has a tradition.”
She laughed.
“Perhaps.”
Then her expression softened.
“My mother died five years ago. The Firebird was one of the few things she left that still felt exactly like her.”
I looked toward Vanessa.