My phone rings, interrupting thoughts I'd rather not examine too closely. Henry's number appears on the screen, and I answer with practiced professionalism, though I have to raise my voice over what sounds like Maddy testing some sort of mechanical waterfall.
"Henry. How's Scotland treating you?"
"Like a dream." His voice carries the contentment of a man who's found his place in the world and discovered it comes with excellent whiskey and a woman who thinks his terrible jokes are charming. "Savvy's convinced we should buy a castle and become sheep farmers. She's sketched out plans for hosting weddings in the great hall."
"That seems like a practical career transition for a business mogul," I reply, watching Maddy wrestle with a life-sized swan made of white roses.
"Says the man who traded corporate law for community development."
Henry's laugh echoes across the Atlantic, warm and knowing. "Speaking of which, how's the temporary office situation? Savvy mentioned Maddy was excited about your arrival."
I glance down at the main floor, where Maddy is arranging a miniature village made of flowers and architectural foam, complete with tiny streetlights that work. Her movements are precise. Each element placed with a care that suggests she sees patterns where I see noise.
There's a protective grace in the way she handles each piece, as if she's safeguarding not only her vision but her friends' shared dreams. Their legacy made tangible in silk and sparkle.
"Excited is one word for it," I say, watching her step back and survey her work, the critical eye of someone who treats miniature architecture like serious business.
"She didn't try to sabotage your setup, did she? Because she's protective of that space. It belongs to all three girls, and she's been known to get creative when she feels like someone's threatening their vision."
"Define sabotage."
"Oh no. What did she do?"
I consider my response while watching Maddy test a mechanized carousel filled with thumb-sized dancing couples. Even from up here, I can see the way she frowns in concentration, as if one misstep from a plastic groom might ruin someone's real-life proposal.
"She was quite welcoming. She prepared a workspace consisting of milk crates and furniture that's eligible for Social Security."
Henry's silence stretches long enough that I wonder if the call dropped. Then he laughs. A deep, genuine laugh that tells me he saw this coming a mile away and already has a betting pool to prove it.
"And I bet you retaliated by ordering furniture," he says. It's not a question.
"I established a functional workspace that meets basic professional standards." The defensive note in my voice is unmistakable, even to myself.
"Which looks like it was plucked from a corner office in Manhattan and dropped into a barn." I can hear the grin in his voice. "All that's missing is a view of the skyline and a personal assistant named Greg."
"I was being efficient, and the last time I looked, that wasn't a character flaw, Henry."
"No," he agrees, still chuckling. "But it might be overkill for someone whose biggest crime was making sure her world didn't get bulldozed. Did you consider she might've been testing you?Not to see if you'd take over, but if you'd make room for what was there?"
Before I can formulate a response that doesn't sound defensive —because the uncomfortable truth is that I didn't consider anything beyond establishing my territory—the echo of heavy footsteps on the stairs announces a visitor. Mrs. Patterson's silver head appears at the top of the loft stairs, followed by her tiny dog and an expression of unbridled curiosity.
"Henry, I'll call you back," I say, ending the call before he can respond with what I suspect would be more uncomfortable observations about my territorial instincts.
"Well, hello there," Mrs. Patterson announces, as if she's been invited to tour my office and possibly conduct a thorough investigation into my personal life. I recognize her. Savvy's wedding guest slash self-appointed town historian. The type of woman who could tell you who sat next to whom at a baby shower five years ago and whether they're still speaking. "Heard we had some fancy new furniture delivered to the old barn. Thought I'd come see what all the fuss was about."
Her dog—a creature that appears part Chihuahua, part dust bunny, and part tiny furry judge of character—starts investigating my filing cabinet, nose down, as determined as a customs official hunting for contraband.
"That's Pickles," she says, scooping him up like he's royalty. "Got his name because he's sour on strangers and impossible to train. But I appreciate a dog who has standards. It shows character."
"Mrs. Patterson." I stand, falling back on the polite formality that worked for me in boardrooms. "Good morning."
"Oh, don't you mind me, dear. Just having a look-see." She circles my desk, her casual invasiveness practically a River Bendspecialty. "My goodness, this is fancier than the mayor's office. What type of law do you practice again?"
"Corporate restructuring and trust administration," I reply, hoping technical terminology might discourage further inquiry.
"Trust administration." She nods as if this explains everything about my character, my furniture choices, and possibly my entire life philosophy. "That's like handling dead people's money, isn't it?"
"In simplified terms, yes."
