Page 64

“Savannah. Ah.” Will halts in the doorway, a stack of papers in his hands. He pauses, gives Ferris a polite smile. “Hello again.”

“Hello.” Ferris gives a polite smile back.

There’s a pregnant pause, Ferris looking at Will, Will frowning slightly at Ferris. Me standing in front of the flowers that, for no valid reason, I feel compelled to hide.

At last, when it seems clear Will isn’t going to move, Ferris turns to me. “So, Savvy. I was just . . . going to see . . .”—his eyes momentarily dart to Will—“if you might be available for lunch.”

“Oh,” I say in surprise. “I thought you were going couch shopping with Olivia today.”

“Yes . . . Yes, I was . . . But she has to work. I was hoping you could help me instead.”

Couch shopping. Well, it’s not on the top of my list as far as fun Valentine’s Day activities go, but it would be a welcome substitute for my soggy chicken salad sandwich waiting for me in the breakroom.

I’m just opening my mouth when Will jumps in. “Actually, Savannah”—he says my full first name with a bit of emphasis—“I have to go down to the courthouse just now to get some paperwork notarized. I was hoping you’d come with me. Seeing as you are now the official spokesperson for the Pennington people.”

The smallest twitch of a smile lifts his cheeks as he speaks, and Ferris looks uncertainly from me to him. “Oh, official, is it?” I say. “I didn’t realize it had been approved.”

I turn to Ferris, realizing a bit belatedly that I’ve abandoned my post at the flowers and am shrugging on my coat. “Sorry, Ferris,” I say, though I don’t quite sound sorry at all. “I’m going to have to raincheck. But you know how Olivia is. Just make it as functional and gray as possible, and you’ve got yourself a winner.”

“Right. Sure.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking so startled and, quite frankly, rejected that for a moment I wonder if I should change plans. But to go on a car ride with Will . . . To talk over plans about ways to help the company with Will . . . Well, it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up. Not to mention, who knows what interesting things I’ll learn about him? He’s still somewhat of an office enigma. Jumping into our lives out of the blue. Jumping out just as quietly on his mysterious trips. Never revealing much of his personal life. Who knows what I’ll learn on a car ride with him?

Such as the little golden nugget I’m standing here learning five minutes later, for example.

That this is Will’s car.

I’m quite sure I never actually took the time to think of what exactly I expected he would drive, but I know for a fact I never would’ve come up with this.

Will pulls open the door of the old red Chevy for me. It gives a defiant creak.

“Thank you,” I say, taken aback not only by the formal manners but also by the truck in general. It looks like it’s from the eighties. There’s a sizable dent on the front right corner of the hood. And the beige cloth interior looks like it’s been stomped on about twenty thousand times. But aside from all the wear and tear, the cab interior is spotless, not a crumb or loose paper to be seen. It smells faintly of cedar and grease. It’s cozy, like one of those Alaskan cabins in the woods.

He shuts his door and turns the ignition.

“I gotta say,” I comment the second the engine starts to rumble. “I didn’t expect you to drive a car like this.”

“Thought I was more of a Lexus man, did you?” he says, sounding unsurprised.

“Well, yes. After all, look at you. You don’t exactly dress like a lumberjack.”

“My job doesn’t afford me the opportunity to dress like a lumberjack.” He grins and turns onto the main road. There’s a pause before he adds, “This truck was my father’s.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Was. Not is.

“I inherited it last year,” he continues.

Ah. And there it is.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, and feel it. Truly.

“Thank you.” Will nods, his eyes fixed on the road.

I know little of Ms. Pennington’s personal life except that she divorced her husband twenty years ago and has been alone ever since. I knew nothing about the man she had once been married to, just that she’d had one husband in the course of her life and one son—some bigshot named William who worked in the publishing industry in the big city.

“Anyway, he loved his truck. And was always practical about his needs. I like to think I will keep on learning that from him.”

I glance over to the dash. The RPM gauge on the left-hand side is covered by a Polaroid that looks thirty years old. A poorly exposed picture of an infant perched on a wooden high chair in front of a little round birthday cake, hands and cheeks covered in icing as his big blue eyes look into the camera. There’s a number on the cake, a baby-blue 1, and a man with a toothy grin has one arm draped over the boy as he stands on one side, a woman—no question, from the striking blue eyes, a younger Ms. Pennington—on the other.

“Was he very different from . . . your mom?” It feels awkward asking your boss about his personal life, especially in a truck like this. Maybe if I were riding along in some sleek, personality-less BMW I’d feel different. We’d chat mildly about sales numbers and the weather. But in this? Sitting on well-worn fabric with the scent of cedar and nostalgia all around? It feels impossible. It feels as personal and unavoidable as if I’ve walked into his own bedroom.