I took a breath.
“I owe you an apology.”
She didn't answer.
I continued.
“You told me the truth about what you knew. You helped me find somebody independent to review the documents. And then I acted like you were personally responsible for everything happening at the bank.”
Vanessa was quiet for several seconds.
Finally, she whispered, “I understand why you were frightened.”
I looked toward the window.
“Maybe. But that doesn't make it fair.”
Another silence.
Then she asked, “How's Maya?”
The question nearly broke me.
I smiled.
“Currently designing a spacecraft with a horse cafeteria.”
Vanessa laughed softly.
“Sounds ambitious.”
“Very.”
For a moment, the conversation became easier.
Then I looked toward the garage photograph on the mantel.
“Can I see you?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“I'd like that.”
I swallowed.
“But we need to be careful about the business.”
“I know.”
She took a breath.
“Arthur has been telling people I'm personally intervening for you. The independent review will take time.”
I nodded.
“Then no business meeting.”
She sounded surprised.
“What?”
“Dinner. Coffee. A walk. Something where we don't discuss lenders or foreclosure notices.”
For a moment, she didn't answer.
Then she laughed quietly.
“Is that your idea of a second date?”
I smiled.
“Apparently.”
She hesitated.
Then said, “I'd love that.”
We met the following evening at a little diner near Lake Washington.
No expensive tablecloth.
No valet.
No pianist.
Just red vinyl booths, excellent burgers, and a waitress who called everyone honey.
Vanessa arrived wearing jeans and a blue sweater beneath a wool coat.
Her long chestnut hair fell loose around her face.
She looked beautiful.
But there was something different about her.
She seemed tired.
When I stood, she smiled faintly.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then I offered my hand.
She took it.
We sat.
Ordered food.
And spent the first twenty minutes deliberately talking about anything except the garage.
She told me about her disastrous attempt to learn guitar.
I told her about a customer who once brought in a car because its horn played music every time he used the windshield washers.
She laughed so hard that the waitress came over to see whether everything was all right.
For a while, the bank disappeared.
Then Vanessa became quiet.
She looked toward her hands.
“Marcus, there's something I need to say.”
I put down my fork.
“Okay.”
She took a breath.