Page 31 of The Founder's Power

She sips her coffee. “You’ve changed.”

I glance at her. “I’m trying.”

She nudges her shoulder lightly against mine, and I don’t breathe too deeply, afraid to scare the moment away.

I don’t want to push too hard, too fast, but I am dying to do anything and everything with her. I could drag her to all of the nicest restaurants. She deserves to be wined and dined. Yes, business isn’t the best right now, but I still have money.

But I think this is more what she prefers, and we’re taking things slow, and yes, that’s painful, but we need to get to know one another. We’re almost starting over, and that she’s giving me this chance… I keep saying it’s a second chance, but really, it’s my third chance. Three strikes, and I’ll be out.

We talk until the sun begins to dip behind the trees. Our coffees are forgotten, cold and bitter. Her voice is relaxed and my own feels like something human again.

I don’t push, and I don’t ask for more than she’s willing to give. I just show up day after day. Message after message. Moment after moment.

It’s humbling. It’s exhausting, but it’s worth every second.

Love doesn’t live in declarations. Not this time. It lives in showing up for what doesn’t hurt so maybe, one day, we can talk about what does.

* * *

That weekend,I take her to Mabel’s Garden, a quiet little bistro tucked into the side of a cobbled alley in Old Town. No velvet ropes. No valet. No curated rooftop skyline. Just a narrow green door beneath a tangle of fairy lights and ivy, with the name hand-painted in curling script above it.

It smells like thyme and butter even from the outside.

She hesitates when we arrive, blinking up at the warm yellow glow spilling from the windows. “Have you been here before?”

“No,” I say, “but I thought of you when I passed it.”

The hostess greets us with a smile and leads us to a corner table beside a foggy old windowpane. There are no linen tablecloths. The chairs don’t match. One leg of our table is propped up with a folded book of poetry.

The walls are a sun-washed sage green, adorned with antique copper frames and wildflower sketches. Tiny potted herbs sit on each table—basil, rosemary, even lavender—and everything smells faintly like earth after rain. Jazz hums softly from a record player in the corner. It’s not piped in, and it’s not perfect, but I’m enjoying it anyhow.

Isabelle wears a soft blue sundress that drapes along her frame like it was made for movement, for art. Her hair’s loosely pinned, little curls slipping down her neck. She sits across from me, one ankle hooked behind the other, her arms resting lightly on the table like she’s not sure she wants to be fully settled. It breaks me a little that it feels like she’s still bracing to bolt if I say something that makes this feel like a trap.

“What have you been up to with your paintings?” I ask after we place our order.

“I’ve actually started to mentor a student.”

“Since when?”

“Only a few days,” she says.

I grin. There’s that quiet fire I’ve always loved.

The waitress brings over our drinks.

“The student…” Isabelle continues, “she’s bold. She’s braver than I ever was at her age, and she paints grief like it’s a language.”

“Grief?”

“She lost her grandfather recently, so now it’s only her and her grandmother.”

“Oh no.”

“She’s strong, though, and her artwork is helping. She doesn’t always even see everything that she’s painting into her art. Breaking it down for her…”

“You’re like a therapist to her.”

“In a way, maybe. I don’t know if I would quite go that far, though.” She shakes her head. “This new piece I’ve been trying to finish… it refuses to come together no matter what I do! The composition is there, but it’s fighting me. It’s like the canvas is holding a secret I haven’t earned yet.”

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