Page 30 of The Breakup Broker

“Henry could have told me. We could have?—”

“What?” James’s voice was calm, almost too calm. “Fought back? Against a man who controls half of Manhattan’s real estate? Who could buy and sell River Bend ten times over without blinking?” He shook his head slowly. “Henry was young. Inexperienced. He did what he thought would protect you. Was it the right choice? Probably not. But it was the only one he thought he had.”

Memories flooded back—the way Henry had seemed distant in those last few weeks, the unease that crept in whenever his father was mentioned, the way he’d looked at me like he was memorizing my face.

“I’ve missed our talks.” James’s voice pulled me back to the present. “The way you see straight to the heart of things. The way you made Henry laugh—really laugh, not that polite society chuckle he uses now.”

“James—”

“I have little time left.” He said it matter-of-factly, like commenting on the weather. “And I think about regret. About all the things we leave unsaid because we’re too proud or too scared or too certain we know what’s best for everyone else.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that sometimes the universe gives us second chances.” He reached for my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “And sometimes those chances come disguised as professional obligations, family requests, or coincidences that aren’t coincidences at all.”

“I can’t—” I took a shaky breath. “I can’t forget everything that happened.”

“Of course not. And you shouldn’t.” He squeezed my hand. “But maybe you can try to understand it. To see that sometimes the people we love make mistakes because they love us too much, not too little.”

A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Morrison? It’s time for your dinner.”

James sighed with familiar exasperation. “The warden approaches.” But his eyes stayed on me, sharp and knowing. “Will you come back?”

The question caught me off guard. “I?—”

“Not for Henry,” he added quickly. “For me. I’ve missed having someone to discuss books with who reads them for pleasure, not status.”

I looked at this man who’d been more of a grandfather to me than either of my own, who’d defended me to his family, who’d seen past my small-town roots to recognize a kindred spirit.

“I’ll think about it.”

The way his face lit up was worth any awkwardness this might cause. “Good,” he said as if it were a done deal. “Bring that copy ofJane Eyrewe were arguing about last time. I still say Rochester was an idiot.”

“He was trying to protect Jane,” I said automatically, falling into our old pattern.

“By lying to her?”

James’s eyebrows rose. “By making choices for her without giving her all the information?” he asked.

The parallel wasn’t lost on me. “That’s not?—”

“Same time tomorrow?” He was reaching for his book again, dismissing me with the casual authority of someone used to ending conversations on his terms.

I stood, smoothing my sweater with my hands. “Same time tomorrow.”

At the door, I turned back. James was silhouetted against the window, the golden light framing him in shades of shadow. He looked smaller somehow, more fragile, but his voice was strong when he called out:

“Savannah?”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is admit we might have been wrong about why something happened.” He held my gaze, his expression unreadable—yet knowing, as always. “Even if we were right about how much it hurt.”

I left Madison Center with my head spinning and my heart aching in ways I thought I’d buried years ago. The Hudson reflected streaks of pink and gold, reminding me of countless evenings on the dock with Henry.

Checking my phone, I saw it was after four. I’d made it out in time.

My phone buzzed.

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