Her Money, His Pride

Chapter 23: The Call from School

By nine on Tuesday morning, I had already rejected two change orders, argued with a supplier, and discovered that one of my crews had opened a wall containing plumbing no one had marked on the plans.

It was an ordinary day at Carter Restoration.

“Tell me again why you wanted your own company,” Owen said from my office doorway.

He had worked beside me since before we had an office, when invoices lived in a toolbox and we accepted every job available.

“So I wouldn’t have to listen to people like you.”

“You pay me to make you listen.”

Owen dropped a folder on my desk. “A developer called about the Hawthorne building.”

“Which developer?”

“Ashford.”

My hand stopped.

“I told them we were booked.”

“You told the project manager. This time Richard Ashford called personally.”

“I’m still booked.”

“We could move another job. This is exactly the kind of restoration you built the company to do.”

I knew that. I also knew accepting work from Victoria’s father would make every suspicion she carried easier to believe.

“Wrong schedule,” I said.

Owen studied me. “You’re a terrible liar.”

My phone rang before I could answer.

Blackwood Academy.

Every thought of contracts disappeared.

“Daniel Carter.”

“Mr. Carter, Sophie is safe, but she became upset during class. Miss Ashford is with her.”

I stood so fast my chair struck the wall.

“What happened?”

“She had difficulty with an assignment. There is no medical emergency, but we think you should come.”

“I’m leaving.”

It took twelve minutes to reach the school.

I spent every one imagining things no parent should imagine.

Sophie was in the small reading room beside the library, curled into the corner of a sofa. Victoria sat on the floor in front of her.

Neither noticed me at first.

A worksheet lay between them.

**A PERSON I ADMIRE.**

Sophie had written one sentence.

**I admire my mother because she tried to stay.**

My chest closed.

Victoria sat close enough to be present and far enough not to trap her.

“You don’t have to read it to the class,” she said.

“Everyone else will.”

“Everyone else gets to make their own choice. So do you.”

“Will they know I’m scared?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. Being scared only means something matters to you.”

Sophie wiped her face.

“Dad will be sad.”

“He may be.”

“I don’t want to make him sad.”

Victoria’s expression changed.

“You are not responsible for keeping your father from feeling sad,” she said softly. “He loves you. That means he can hear difficult things.”

I stepped into the room.

Sophie looked up.

“Dad.”

I crouched beside her, and she threw her arms around my neck.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I wrote about Mom.”

“I know.”

“You look sad.”

“I am.” I held her tighter. “And I’m still glad you wrote it.”

She pulled back. “Both can happen?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes moved toward Victoria.

Victoria nodded. “Both can happen.”

We decided Sophie would give the worksheet to Victoria instead of reading it aloud. She could change her mind later.

When she returned to class, Victoria stayed behind.

“What happened before she became upset?” I asked.

“The assignment was introduced during the combined language period. Sophie tried to write about you first, then erased it.”

“Why?”

“She said admiring you felt like betraying her mother.”

I sat on the sofa.

That thought had never occurred to me.

Victoria gathered the tissues from the floor.

“I should have anticipated the subject might be difficult.”

“You can’t protect her from every sentence on a worksheet.”

“No. But I can notice when one hurts her.”

“You did.”

She stopped moving.

“I didn’t fix it.”

“She didn’t need you to fix it.”

Victoria lowered her eyes. “That is not something I’m naturally good at.”

“Not fixing things?”

“Letting people feel what they feel without trying to manage the result.”

The admission was quiet.

Maybe control was not always arrogance. Sometimes it was fear wearing expensive clothes.

“My wife used to say I repaired everything except conversations,” I said.

Victoria sat across from me.

“Was she right?”

“Usually.”

“What did you do when Sophie cried after Emma died?”

“At first, I distracted her. Made food. Planned activities. Repaired everything in the house.”

“Except the chair.”

I looked at her.

“Sophie told me.”

“Of course she did.”

A small smile touched her mouth.

“Rachel finally told me I was teaching Sophie that grief was something we had to escape,” I continued. “So I stopped trying to make every day good.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It felt like failing.”

She understood. I saw it immediately.

“When my brother was sick,” she said, “I believed being easy would help my parents. I tried not to need anything. After he died, I kept doing it because I didn’t know who I was without it.”

The room became still.

She had never spoken about her brother.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So am I.”

Not *thank you.*

Not *it was a long time ago.*

Just the truth.

The bell rang in the hallway.

Victoria stood. “I should return to class.”

I rose beside her.

“Thank you for staying with Sophie.”

Her eyes held mine.

“I wasn’t going to leave her alone.”

I believed her.

That was the dangerous part.

Not the attraction. Not the arguments.

It was the certainty that, if Sophie reached for her, Victoria would stay.

And I was beginning to want the same thing.

El próximo capítulo continuará desde Victoria y desarrollará las consecuencias emocionales de haberle contado a Daniel sobre su hermano.