Chapter 2 - “Why?”
“Because I researched you.”
I gave him a sharp look.
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“You graduated Temple with a degree in business administration.
You put graduate school on hold after your mother’s illness.
You became primary caretaker for your siblings while working full time.
You have no criminal record, no significant debt, and apparently an impressive ability to make sourdough.”
I blinked.
“You researched my bread?”
“Your bakery posts photographs.”
For some ridiculous reason, that almost made me smile.
Almost.
Simon pushed a document toward me.
“This is the actual marriage agreement.”
I opened it.
Twelve months.
Separate bedrooms.
Independent finances.
No expectation of romantic relationship.
Either party could terminate after the required corporate period.
A salary would be paid to me for public obligations connected to the company.
The Preston debt would be extinguished immediately.
Tommy and Rose’s educational trust would remain regardless of divorce.
My father would be prohibited from borrowing against the house for five years.
And at the bottom:
Abigail Preston retains unrestricted right to leave the marital residence at any time.
I looked up.
“You added that.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re afraid I’ll accuse you of imprisoning me?”
“Because I am aware of how this arrangement looks.”
“How does it look?”
“Terrible.”
That time, I did smile.
Just a little.
The wedding happened that evening in a judge’s chambers.
No flowers.
No guests except Daniel and Simon’s older sister, Rebecca.
Rebecca hugged me after the ceremony as if we had met under perfectly normal circumstances.
“I know this is strange,” she whispered.
“That’s one word.”
“My brother has the emotional flexibility of a parking meter, but he’s not cruel.”
Simon, standing three feet away, said, “I can hear you.”
“I know.”
Rebecca smiled.
It was my first hint that Simon Wexler might be a person before he was a reputation.
His house sat in Society Hill behind an iron gate, elegant but surprisingly warm inside.
Wood floors.
Books everywhere.
Old photographs.
A bowl of lemons in the kitchen.
No army of employees.
Only Mrs.
Alvarez, a housekeeper who announced that she came four days a week and refused to call anyone “sir.”
“You hungry?” she asked me.
“I’m okay.”
“That means yes.”
She made grilled cheese.
My wedding dinner.
Simon ate one too.
We barely spoke.
At eleven, he showed me upstairs.
“Your room.”
It had pale green walls and tall windows overlooking a courtyard.
Across the hall was another door.
“Mine,” Simon said.
I set my suitcase down.
He remained in the doorway.
“There’s one thing we should discuss.”
Here it was.
The moment I had dreaded since midnight.
Instead, Simon pointed toward a small desk.
“My grandmother’s board dinner is next Friday.
We’ll be expected to attend together.”
I stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“For tonight.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“Goodnight, Abby.”
“Simon?”
He paused.
“My mother.
What did she do for your family?”
His expression became unreadable.
“That story belongs to Rebecca too.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I won’t tell it without her permission.”
Then he left.
I should have slept.
Instead, I unpacked slowly, trying to understand the impossible shape of my new life.
Shortly after midnight, I went downstairs for water.
A light was on inside Simon’s study.
The door stood slightly open.
I heard Rebecca’s voice.
“You should have told her.”
“I told her enough.”
“No.
You told her Elaine worked here.”
“That is where the story begins.”
“And if she finds out from Walter?”
Simon laughed without humor.
“Walter doesn’t know.”
I froze.
Rebecca lowered her voice, but I could still hear.
“She deserves to know why Elaine left.”
“I agree.”
“Then tell her.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When I know why her mother hid the records.”
My hand tightened around the water glass.
Records?
There was a pause.
Then Rebecca said something that made my heartbeat stumble.
“And the letter?”
Simon answered quietly.
“I haven’t shown her.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was written eighteen years ago and addressed to Abigail.”
I stepped backward.
The floorboard creaked.
Silence filled the study.
Simon opened the door.
He saw me instantly.
Neither of us pretended I hadn’t heard.
“What letter?”
I asked.
His face changed.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Something more complicated.
Regret.
He walked to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and removed a faded cream envelope.
My mother’s handwriting covered the front.
For Abby, when she is old enough to understand.
My hands began to shake.
“Where did you get this?”
Simon looked at Rebecca.
Then back at me.
“My grandmother kept it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I reached for the envelope.
Simon gave it to me without hesitation.
The paper felt impossibly light for something that had survived nearly two decades.
I opened it.
Inside were only four handwritten lines.
Abby,
If this ever reaches you, then something I hoped to resolve quietly never truly disappeared.
Do not blame Walter until you know what he was never told.
And if the Wexlers have kept their promise, ask them about the account in my name.
Love always,
Mom
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
I looked at Simon.
“What account?”
His expression told me the answer was not simple.
“That,” he said, “is what I’ve been trying to find.”
May you like
And for the first time since my father’s debt brought Simon Wexler into my life, I understood that the marriage might not be the strangest secret connecting our families.
It might only be the reason the older one had finally surfaced.
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