"I was already here."
Nora reached for her wallet.
"At least let me—"
He raised one hand.
"Really. It's fine."
She looked toward his grease-stained fingers.
Something tightened inside her chest.
Here was a man who did not know she was wealthy.
Did not know her surname.
Did not know that she could have purchased the entire building without needing to consult anyone.
And he had helped her without calculating what he might receive.
She lowered her wallet.
"Thank you."
He nodded.
"You're welcome."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Daniel asked, "You visiting Bellweather?"
Nora swallowed.
"Something like that."
"Nice time of year for it."
"Yes."
He looked toward the lake.
"Road's pretty quiet out this way. Good place to clear your head."
Nora almost laughed.
If only he knew.
He extended his hand.
"Daniel Mercer."
She stared at it.
Then carefully placed hers inside.
His hand was warm.
Rough.
Familiar in a way that frightened her.
"I'm Nora."
He smiled.
"Nice to meet you, Nora."
She nearly broke.
He released her hand.
Then returned to the pickup.
Nora climbed onto the motorcycle.
Put on her gloves.
And started the engine.
Before pulling away, she looked toward him one last time.
He raised his hand in farewell.
She raised hers.
Then rode slowly toward the bridge.
She did not reach it that afternoon.
Halfway there, tears blurred her vision.
She pulled over safely and sat beside the road until she could breathe normally again.
He was alive.
He was kind.
And he had no idea who she was.
Daniel watched the burgundy motorcycle disappear around the bend.
Then he returned to the pickup truck.
For several minutes, he tried to concentrate on the engine.
But something about the stranger bothered him.
Not unpleasantly.
She had a familiar voice.
A way of tilting her head when she listened.
And when he mentioned the road being quiet, her expression had changed as though he had touched an old memory.
He dismissed the feeling.
At sixty, people sometimes reminded him of people he had known.
Faces changed.
Voices overlapped.
Memory played strange tricks.
There was no reason to imagine anything more.
That evening, he returned home and found Lucy sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by schoolbooks.
She had thick dark-blond hair, blue-gray eyes like her father, and the permanently skeptical expression of a twelve-year-old who believed adults were responsible for most of the world's unnecessary complications.
"Dad."
Daniel hung up his jacket.
"Hello to you too."
"We need poster board."
He looked toward the clock.
"For?"
"Science."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
He stared.
Lucy smiled sweetly.