Caleb blinked. "You want to talk about woodworking? I want to hear you talk about something you understand, something you control." So, he did. At first, he was hesitant, offering short clip sentences about joints, brackets, and load-bearing walls.
But Caroline didn't feign interest. She demanded detail. She asked about the tensile strength of oak versus maple. She asked why he preferred dovetail joints over nails. Before he knew it, the appetizer had arrived.
Some sort of seared scallop that tasted like the ocean and butter. And Caleb was sketching a cabinet schematic on a paper napkin with a pen he'd found in his pocket. "The problem is the moisture," Caleb said, tapping the ink drawing. "If you don't seal the end grain properly, the wood breathes. It swells in the summer and shrinks in the winter.
Over time, it tears itself apart." Caroline watched his hand, the calluses, the faint white scar across his knuckle. "It tears itself apart because it's trying to adapt to an environment it wasn't made for," she said quietly. Caleb paused. He looked up from the napkin.
The conversation had shifted effortlessly from carpentry to something much heavier. "Yeah," Caleb said softly. "Exactly. The main course arrived. Braised short ribs that fell apart if you looked at them too hard, resting on a bed of something smooth and rich.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't the awkward, desperate silence of a first date. It was a heavy, comfortable quiet. "Why are you a single dad?" Caroline asked.
The question was blunt, dropped onto the table without any padding. Caleb put his fork down. He didn't flinch. He appreciated the lack of pity in her voice. Maya's mother wanted a different life, Caleb said.
His voice was steady, practiced. She wanted to travel. She wanted freedom. We had Maya young. I wanted to build a home.
She wanted to see the world. When Maya was two, she packed a bag. She sends a postcard on birthdays. That's about it. Caroline took a slow sip of her wine.
Does it make you bitter? It makes me tired. Caleb corrected. Bitterness is a waste of energy. I have to put food on the table.
I don't have time to be angry at ghosts. Survival? Caroline nodded, her eyes darkening slightly. What about you? Caleb asked, pushing his plate forward.
You said you built the company with your husband. What happened? Caroline's posture shifted just a fraction of an inch, but Caleb noticed. The CEO armor slipped back on, cold and rigid. "A drunk driver," she said.
Her voice was entirely devoid of emotion. It was a fact, a data point. A Tuesday afternoon, he was driving one of our first freight trucks back from a route. A kid in a sedan crossed the center line, killed them both. Caleb felt the air leave his lungs.
Caroline, I'm sorry. Don't be. It was a long time ago. She looked down at her wine glass, watching the red liquid catch the light. After he died, I had two choices.