Chapter 9
The independent appraisal came back eleven days later.
I read the number three times.
Then I handed the report to Marisol.
She read it once.
Sat down.
Read it again.
“Six-point-eight?”
“Potentially.”
“That’s…”
“Yes.”
“Without the transit entrance?”
“Current estimated redevelopment value assumes a probability of approval.”
She looked up.
“I understood almost none of that sentence.”
“Neither did I. Priya translated.”
“And?”
“If the transit project happens, the building and land could be worth somewhere between six-point-two and seven-point-one million depending on zoning.”
Marisol slowly lowered the papers.
“Pierce offered four-point-two.”
“Yes.”
“That’s two million less.”
“Potentially.”
“I suddenly hate the word potentially.”
“Welcome to my week.”
She stood and began pacing the office.
Sophie watched her from the rug while attempting to fit a wooden pastry toy into a plastic cup.
“Did he lie?”
Marisol asked.
“No.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I know.”
Jonathan Pierce had been careful.
He had never claimed his offer represented maximum market value.
He had never denied knowing about the transit proposal.
He had simply arrived before we knew what questions to ask.
It was legal.
Probably normal.
And somehow that made me angrier.
I had spent enough of my life learning what happened when information was unevenly distributed.
Aunt Teresa had known about Dad’s papers.
Ethan’s family had known about the trust.
Marisol and I had each known different versions of what happened to the bakery.
Nobody had necessarily set out to destroy our relationship.
But silence had done the work anyway.
I refused to let silence cost us again.
“We should call Pierce,” Marisol said.
“Why?”
“To tell him we know.”
“What does that accomplish?”
“It would make me feel better.”
“Temporary emotional satisfaction.”
“Yes.”
“Dad would approve.”
“He absolutely would.”
I smiled.
Then the office door opened.
Priya Shah walked in carrying her laptop.
Behind her came a woman I hadn’t met before.
Mid-fifties.
Short silver-blond hair.
Navy suit.
Expression suggesting she had never once in her life been impressed by someone else’s expensive watch.
Priya introduced her.
“Rachel, Marisol, this is Elaine Mercer.”
Elaine shook our hands.
“Commercial real estate attorney.”
Marisol looked at me.
“Did Ethan send her?”
Elaine answered before Priya could.
“No.”
I liked her immediately.
“Who did?”
“Priya called me.”
Priya sat down.
“I thought you needed someone with no Callahan connection.”
I looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“Ethan thought so too.”
“That sounds like a connection.”
“He specifically told me not to use anyone his company had ever retained.”
I sighed.
“Of course he did.”
Elaine opened a folder.
“I reviewed the deed, easement, Pierce application, proposed transit maps, and the appraisal.”
“And?”
“You have leverage.”
Marisol sat straighter.
“What kind?”
“The kind that makes people behave more politely.”
I definitely liked Elaine.
She pointed to the site map.
“Pierce’s current project is technically possible without your property.”
“Technically?”
“It would require redesigning vehicle access, reducing retail frontage, and possibly eliminating six residential units.”
“So expensive.”
“Yes.”
“How expensive?”
“Enough to explain four-point-two million dollars.”
I looked at the map.
“And the alley?”
“The existing easement cannot simply be removed.”
Relief moved through me.
“Can they modify it?”
“They can ask.”
“Can the city approve it without us?”
Elaine paused.
“Under certain circumstances.”
There it was again.
“But?”
“They would have to show legitimate public or planning benefit, and you would have strong grounds to challenge any modification that materially interferes with your property.”
“How long would that take?”
“Months. Possibly longer.”
“And legal fees?”
“Unpleasant.”
Marisol sighed.
Elaine leaned back.
“But litigation should not be your first strategy.”
“What should?”
“Documentation.”
I blinked.
“That’s less exciting.”
“Exciting legal strategies are usually expensive legal strategies.”
She gave us instructions.
Document deliveries.
Photograph current alley conditions.
Keep maintenance records.
Save every communication from Pierce.
Attend public planning meetings.
File comments on the development proposal.
Understand our rights before construction began.
Nothing dramatic.
Everything useful.
I thought of Ethan.
Information.
Introductions.
Choices.
Maybe power was less about controlling other people than I had once believed.
Maybe real power was knowing enough that other people could not quietly control you.
That evening, Ethan took me to dinner.
An actual restaurant.
No baby.
No bakery apron.
No spreadsheets.
Marisol had Sophie overnight.
I had spent twenty minutes standing in front of my suitcase before realizing almost everything I owned in Chicago smelled faintly like cinnamon.
Ethan arrived at seven.
He wore a charcoal suit without a tie.
I opened the door.
He looked at me.
Then continued looking.
I glanced down at my dark green dress.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s clearly something.”
“You look beautiful.”
The simplicity of it embarrassed me more than an elaborate compliment would have.
“Thank you.”
He held out his hand.
I took it.
The restaurant overlooked the river.
Normally, places like that made me nervous.
Menus without prices online.
Hosts who knew Ethan’s name.
Wine lists longer than my old apartment lease.
But something had changed.
I no longer felt like I had accidentally entered someone else’s world.
Maybe because Ethan never treated my discomfort like ignorance.
He explained things when I asked.
Ignored them when I didn’t.
And when I ordered the least expensive entrée, he didn’t comment.
Halfway through dinner, he set down his glass.
“I need to tell you something.”
My stomach tightened immediately.
“That sentence should be illegal.”
“It’s not bad.”
“People always say that before bad things.”
He almost smiled.
Then didn’t.
“My board wants me in London for six months.”
I stared.
“Oh.”
There it was.
The exit.
My mind found it instantly.
Six months.
Another country.
Distance.
Schedules.
Different lives.
I hated how quickly old instincts returned.
“When?”
“January.”
Three months away.
“Why?”
“We’re restructuring the European division.”
“And you have to go?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“You don’t?”
“I could send someone else.”
“But?”
“But I should probably go.”
I looked out at the river.
Lights moved across the water.
My chest felt tight.
Ethan waited.
He did not fill the silence.
He had learned that from me.
Or maybe I had learned it from him.
“Why are you telling me now?” I asked.
“Because I found out this afternoon.”
That answer mattered more than he knew.
Before deciding what it means for both of us.
His promise.
He was keeping it.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“To go.”
The answer hurt.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was honest.
He continued.
“The European operation has problems that should have been addressed two years ago. My father would have gone himself.”
“You’re not your father.”
“No.”
“Do you think you have to prove something?”
“No.”
I studied him.
He added, “Maybe a little.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Better.”
“I also think I can fix it.”
“And you want to.”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
He watched me carefully.
“You can be angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Disappointed.”
“Yes.”
“Afraid?”
I hated him for knowing.
“Yes.”
He reached across the table.
I looked at his hand.
Didn’t take it yet.
“What happens to us?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the correct answer.
I hated it.
“You could lie.”
“I could.”
“Say nothing changes.”
“Something will change.”
“Say six months goes quickly.”
“It might not.”
“Say you’ll fly back every weekend.”
“That would be irresponsible and exhausting.”
I finally looked at him.
“You’re terrible at romance.”
“I’ve been told.”
“By who?”
“You.”
“Good.”
His hand remained between us.
Offering.
Not pulling.
Not claiming.
I took it.
“I don’t want you to stay because you think I can’t handle you leaving.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to pretend I don’t care whether you go.”
“I know that too.”
“I’m going to miss you.”
His thumb moved across my fingers.
“I’m going to miss you.”
Six months.
A year earlier, I would have ended things before he could leave.
I knew that with uncomfortable certainty.
I would have called it practical.
Protected myself before distance could prove that I was not important enough.
But maybe love—whatever this was becoming—did not require certainty.
Maybe it required tolerating uncertainty without running.
“When do you need to decide?”
“Friday.”
“Then decide.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That’s it?”
“No.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Decide what’s right for your life. Then we decide what that means for ours.”
Something moved in his face.
Quiet.
Deep.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
The restaurant disappeared.
Not literally.
People still spoke.
Silverware still touched plates.
A server crossed behind Ethan.
But for one strange second, everything in me became silent.
He did not look triumphant.
He looked terrified.
That almost made me laugh.
Ethan Callahan.
The man who negotiated acquisitions worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
Terrified.
I swallowed.
“You picked an interesting moment.”
“I know.”
“You’re telling me you might leave for six months.”
“Yes.”
“And then you say that?”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“I’ve been trying not to say it for approximately seven weeks.”
I stared at him.
“Seven?”
“Possibly eight.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you might panic.”
“I am panicking.”
“I noticed.”
My eyes burned.
I blinked hard.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t ask for an answer.
That was Ethan.
Always offering.
I thought about the airplane.
His shoulder beneath my cheek.
The bottle warmed beneath an airplane faucet.
The terrible coffee.
The soup.
The car seat.
Sophie reaching for him.
The bakery opening.
Every small thing.
Love had arrived without spectacle.
It had accumulated.
One ordinary act at a time.
“I love you too,” I said.
His eyes closed briefly.
That tiny reaction nearly broke me.
Then he stood.
I looked up.
“What are you doing?”
He walked around the table.
For one horrifying second, I thought he was going to kneel.
“If you propose right now, I will climb out that window.”
He stopped.
Then laughed.
Loudly.
Several people looked over.
“I’m not proposing.”
“Good.”
“I was going to kiss you.”
“Oh.”
“Unless that’s also prohibited.”
I stood.
“Shut up.”
He kissed me.
It wasn’t dramatic.
No applause.
No music swelling at the perfect moment.
Just Ethan’s hand against my cheek and my fingers gripping his jacket.
When we separated, I whispered, “You should go to London.”
His expression changed.
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
“But I think you should go anyway.”
He rested his forehead against mine.
“Six months.”
“Six months.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
I nodded.
This time, the uncertainty did not feel like an ending.
It felt like something we would have to build around.
The same way Marisol and I had built around seven lost years.
The same way we had rebuilt the bakery without pretending it was still Dad’s.
You could love something and let it change.
Maybe that was the lesson I kept learning.
My phone vibrated.
I ignored it.
Then it vibrated again.
And again.
Ethan stepped back.
“You should check.”
“If that is my sister sending pictures of Sophie—”
It was Daniel.
Three messages.
Rachel, call me.
Now.
Pierce filed an emergency amendment.
I looked at Ethan.
“What?”
I showed him.
His expression hardened.
I called Daniel.
He answered immediately.
“What happened?”
“They changed the construction schedule.”
“To when?”
“Demolition begins in ten days.”
My stomach dropped.
“They don’t have approval.”
“For the full project, no. But they have permits for interior demolition on the buildings they already own.”
“And the alley?”
“That’s the problem.”
I stood completely still.
Daniel continued.
“The demolition plan temporarily closes the north half of the alley for safety.”
“How temporarily?”
“Ninety days.”
I looked at Ethan.
“That blocks our delivery turn.”
“I know.”
“Can they do that?”
“Elaine is reviewing it.”
The warmth of five minutes earlier vanished.
I thought of Jonathan Pierce.
I hope the construction doesn’t create difficulties for you.
The words sounded different now.
“Rachel,” Daniel said.
“Yes?”
“There’s one more thing.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course there was.
“What?”
“Pierce’s office called.”
“Why?”
“They want to make another offer.”
I looked out across the river.
“How much?”
May you like
Daniel paused.
“Five-point-five million.”
