Chapter 2 - THE PROMISE MICHAEL NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT
I drove to Martin’s office the next morning with Michael’s name burning inside my head.
“How did Richard know my husband?”
Martin slid an old photograph across the desk.
Michael stood beside a dark green Jaguar, grease on his forearms and the ridiculous grin I had fallen in love with when we were twenty-four.
Richard stood beside him.
Younger.
Still silver-haired.
Still unmistakably Richard.
I touched the photograph.
“When was this?”
“About eight years ago.”
Before Michael became sick.
Richard collected vintage cars.
Michael’s repair shop occasionally handled specialty work.
They became friendly.
Not close enough for dinner.
Close enough for conversations.
Then Michael was diagnosed with cancer.
“Richard knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t Michael tell me?”
Martin gave a sad smile.
“Because your husband was proud.”
That was true.
Michael once worked three extra weekends because he refused to let me ask a friend for grocery money.
Martin opened another file.
Michael had approached Richard during treatment.
Not to ask for cash.
To ask about work.
He wanted something I could do from home if his health deteriorated.
Richard connected him with a small billing contractor.
The job never happened because Michael declined quickly.
Then, during their final meeting, Michael did something else.
He gave Richard my résumé.
Store work.
Clinic administration before Emily was born.
A few years of customer service.
“He told Richard you were better at organizing chaos than anyone he’d ever met.”
I laughed through tears.
“That sounds like Michael.”
Then Martin showed me a letter.
Not addressed to me.
Richard,
If I don’t make it, don’t give Hannah charity. She’ll hate you for it.
If she ever comes through your world needing work, give her a fair chance.
That’s all.
Michael.
I had to stop reading.
Six months after Michael died, I answered an advertisement for a housekeeping position at Richard’s estate.
I thought it was random.
It wasn’t.
“Richard recognized me?”
“Your name.”
“Did he hire me because of Michael?”
Martin hesitated.
“He moved your interview to the top of the pile.”
I felt something twist inside me.
“So I didn’t earn the job.”
“You did.”
“How?”
“You were interviewed by the estate manager before Richard ever met you. Four applicants reached the final round. You scored highest.”
That mattered.
Richard had opened a door.
He had not carried me through it.
Then Martin said:
“There’s another reason Richard recognized you.”
“What?”
He turned over the photograph.
Behind Michael and Richard was a brick building.
I knew it.
Harbor House.
The group home where Michael and I had met as teenagers.
My heart stopped.
“Why were they there?”
Martin’s eyes softened.
“Because Richard owned it.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Not personally.”
Then:
“He founded the foundation that funded it.”
May you like
The wealthy widower I had spent five years married to had secretly been connected to the foster home where my first husband and I met.
And somehow, Richard had known pieces of my life long before I knew his.
