Twelve miles.
Not one hundred.
Claire spent most of the drive staring at Daniel’s taillights.
The Cadillac ran perfectly.
At the lodge, Daniel looked deeply uncomfortable walking into the dining room wearing a dark work jacket and jeans.
Claire loved it immediately.
The hostess looked at him.
Then at Claire in her white dress.
Then back at him.
Reservation:
Mercer.
Two.
Daniel said:
“This looked less ridiculous before the roadside portion.”
Claire removed her cream coat.
“Relax.”
“Easy for you.”
“Why?”
“You look like you belong here.”
Claire glanced at the room.
Stone fireplace.
Wine wall.
White tablecloths.
People dressed elegantly.
She looked back at Daniel.
“I spend half my life in rooms where everyone pretends clothes are character.”
He smiled.
“Mechanics do that too.”
“With coveralls?”
“Clean ones mean management.”
Claire laughed.
They sat.
For the first twenty minutes they talked mostly about their fathers.
Daniel remembered Michael Mercer as a man who could never pass a stranded vehicle.
“He was late to everything.”
Claire smiled.
“Because he stopped?”
“Always.”
“Your mother hated it.”
“My mother started packing extra water in his truck because arguing didn’t work.”
Claire’s eyes softened.
“That’s probably why Dad knew he would stop.”
Daniel nodded.
“Maybe.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She’s alive.”
“Still in Colorado?”
“Montana now.”
“Remarried?”
“No.”
“She claims she had one husband and that was exhausting enough.”
Claire laughed.
Daniel asked about Robert.
Claire told stories.
Her father teaching her to change a tire while she wore a prom dress because he said emergencies ignored wardrobe.
Robert attending every school event but refusing to clap when everyone else did because “teachers already know you passed.”
His terrible coffee.
His obsession with handwritten notes.
“The envelope makes sense,” Daniel said.
“Unfortunately.”
Dinner arrived.
Claire expected awkwardness.
It did not.
Daniel did not ask about her company until she brought it up.
When she told him she ran a private investment and development firm, he nodded.
“How many employees?”
“About twelve hundred.”
His fork stopped.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“My garage has six.”
“Seven if you count Noah doing inventory badly.”
Claire smiled.
“Does my job bother you?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Should it?”
“Some men dislike—”
“Money?”
“Successful women.”
Daniel shrugged.
“I repair machines for people richer than both of us combined.”
“Money stopped impressing me around the time a billionaire argued over a thirty-dollar diagnostic fee.”
Claire laughed.
“What happened?”
“He paid twenty-five.”
“How?”
“He brought donuts.”
“That is terrible business.”
“Excellent donuts.”
Dessert came.
Daniel looked at it.
“Your father ordered this.”
Claire laughed.
“I suppose you’re paying?”
“Apparently contractually.”