Noah chose a diner halfway between the city and his workshop.
June did not go.
Neither did I.
But Adrian returned to the house carrying a paper bag and looking bewildered.
I was checking the dining room linen.
“Did it go badly?” I asked.
“He gave me lunch.”
I waited.
“Apparently I ordered coffee and forgot food.”
“That happens.”
“He noticed.”
I looked at the bag.
“What is it?”
“A sandwich.”
He stood there as though nobody had ever done anything more confusing.
“What did you talk about?”
“Work.”
“His?”
“Yes.”
“And yours?”
“He asked whether I knew how to hang a door.”
I pressed my lips together.
Adrian saw.
“You can laugh.”
So I did.
After a moment, he did too.
It loosened something in his face.
“He said his daughter has the same eyes,” Adrian added.
I grew quiet.
“Would you like to meet her?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so simply that he seemed surprised by it himself.
Then he looked down.
“I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask for.”
“Perhaps you could start by asking.”
He nodded.
It was an answer June might have given him.
Maybe that was why he listened.
The first article appeared three days later.
It described an elderly former housekeeper, a secret son, and a canceled wedding.
It called June several things without ever calling to ask her a question.
By noon, photographs of her cottage were circulating online.
Adrian’s campaign adviser arrived at the house carrying a statement.
I was bringing coffee when he began explaining the language.
“A former domestic employee.”
June’s name did not appear.
“A historic personal matter involving the candidate’s deceased father.”
Noah’s name did not appear either.
“Adrian has maintained a respectful relationship with long-serving household staff.”
I stopped beside the table.
