Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Savvy
The train ride to Madison Center stretched endlessly before me, each mile a reminder of the control I was choosing to relinquish. I’d cleared my calendar for the next few days, a rash decision made without fully understanding why. It wasn’t like me to leave loose ends, but after yesterday, I couldn’t trust myself to keep delivering perfect goodbyes. Three hundred and forty-two flawless endings, yet all it had taken was one look at Henry Kingston to unravel me.
The trip gave me seventy-five minutes to question everything—coming alone, the last five years of my life. Manhattan’s skyline loomed ahead, sharp and glittering, like a crown of thorns. It was Henry’s world. One I’d always circled but never touched. In that world, I’d made a name for myself by being his opposite: the kind of person who could walk away without leaving a piece of herself behind.
When I stepped off the train, the late afternoon air had that particular Manhattan crispness that usually centered me before a job. Not today. Today, my professional distance felt like tissue paper in a storm. I couldn’t stop replaying yesterday’s scene—the way my voice had cracked on his name, the raw edge in my tone as I delivered Caroline’s goodbye, the moment years of perfect composure had shattered like cheap glass.
Madison Center loomed ahead, all gleaming glass and modern angles—nothing like the architecture that Henry and I used to admire along River Bend’s waterfront. Inside, the warmth hit me like a wall, and I shrugged off my jacket, the soft cashmere sweater beneath chosen with deliberate thought. It was comfortable without looking careless, saying, “I’m doing fine,” without trying too hard to prove it.
The lobby radiated calculated comfort—polished floors gleaming like a magazine cover, a receptionist with an air of professional charm, and chairs designed to suggest luxury without overstaying your welcome. A piano rendition of “Moon River” floated through the air, subtle enough to feel elegant but prominent enough to ensure you noticed it.
I fought back a laugh. Of course, they’d put Henry’s grandfather in a place where even the background music seemed deliberate.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s expression was poised and polished, everything I used to be before yesterday.
“I’m here to see James Morrison.” The words felt foreign on my tongue. “Savannah Honeysucker.”
Recognition passed across her face. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kingston mentioned you’d be coming.”
Mr. Kingston. Not Henry—only one Kingston commanded that kind of automatic respect. My stomach twisted. “Henry’s father knows I’m here?”
“Oh, no.” She typed something into her computer. “The youngest Kingston. He added you to the approved visitor list before he left earlier today.”
The knot in my stomach loosened. Of course, Henry would think of that. He’d been good at the little details, at smoothing the way for others. It was one of the first things I’d loved about him, back when I was young enough to mistake thoughtfulness for forever.
“Room 517,” she said, handing me a visitor’s badge. “The elevator’s around the corner. Would you like someone to show you?—”
“I can find it.” The words came out sharper than I intended. It was Jennifer Walsh’s professional distance bleeding into Savvy’s emotions again.
The ride gave me several floors to second-guess everything—the years I’d spent trying to move on, the decision to come here. The numbers ticked up with mechanical precision as memories surged forward. James taught me chess in his study, sharing rare first editions he knew I’d cherish, standing up for me to his son-in-law with quiet, unyielding dignity.
The doors opened onto a hallway that looked more like a luxury hotel than a medical facility. Plush carpeting muffled my steps as I followed the numbers: 511, 513, 515...
I paused outside 517, my hand half-raised to knock when James’s voice drifted through the partially open door. “Are you going to stand there all day? Or have you developed a sudden fascination with hospital decor?”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it. Pushing the door open, I stepped into a room that was pure James—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking manicured gardens, leather armchairs that probably cost more than my monthly student loan payment, and books. So many books, their spines creating a familiar rainbow against the pristine walls.
He sat in one of those ridiculously expensive chairs, a worn copy of The Great Gatsby open on his lap. He looked smaller than I remembered, more fragile, but his eyes still held that sharp intelligence that had seen right through everyone’s pretenses.
“Savannah Rose,” he said, and for a moment, I saw the man who’d spent hours discussing literature with me in his study. “You still have that look when you’re overthinking things.”
“Old habits.” I stepped closer, taking in the changes time had etched into him. His hair was completely white now, his face marked with lines that told stories of more than just years. But the way he looked at me hadn’t changed—still warm and knowing, as if he were in on some cosmic joke the rest of us had yet to understand.
“Sit.” He gestured to the chair beside him. “Before you wear a hole in my expensive carpet with all that nervous energy.”
I sank into the leather chair, its softness both comforting and a little unnerving. James and the books seemed to hum with memories I’d tried to forget, stirring something I didn’t want to face. I fidgeted in my seat, trying to shake it off. “Henry said you wanted to see me, Mr. Morrison.”
“Mr. Morrison?” His eyebrow arched as he marked his place and closed the book. “Five years and suddenly we’re strangers, Savannah Rose? You might be the Goodbye Girl to everyone else, but you don’t get to say goodbye so fast to me.”
The use of my full name and the jab at my career sent a pang through my chest. No one in Manhattan knew Jennifer Walsh’s real identity outside my close friends and family—no one except Henry.
“You look good.” He studied me with those sharp eyes that had seen too much. “Harder, maybe. More guarded. But good.”
“I’m fine.” The words came automatically, my standard response to any inquiry about my emotional state. The exact words I’d practiced in the mirror until they sounded believable, until I could deliver them without flinching.
“What happened to the wedding planner dream?” James asked, tilting his head. “You always said you’d plan happily-ever-afters for a living.”
I let out a soft laugh, the kind that sticks in your throat. “Things changed, and I went in the opposite direction.”
His eyebrow lifted, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “I’d say. Explain this to me.”
“I, uh...” Heat crawled up my neck. “I help people end relationships.”
“End relationships?” His voice was even, but his expression betrayed a hint of surprise.
“Yep. I’m the one they call when things get ... messy,” I admitted, my hands twisting in my lap. “Quietly, efficiently, and without attaching my name to it.”
James regarded me momentarily, something close to amusement glinting in his eyes. “Not quite what you planned when you used to sit in my study dreaming about your future, is it?”
“Nope, but dreams rarely turn into reality.” I tried to sound steady, but calm slipped away, impossible to grasp here. The room was styled like a den—cozy armchairs, a wooden bookshelf, muted lighting—but it wasn’t his den. It lacked the warmth and history of the study where I used to sit, dreaming about a future that now seemed like a lifetime ago. I glanced at him, searching for a piece of the person I used to know. “People change, too.”
“Do they?” His gaze sharpened. “Or do they get better at hiding who they are?”
“James—”
“Did you know Henry comes to visit me every day?” The abrupt change of subject knocked me off balance. “Even on the bad days, when I don’t remember who he is.”
My throat tightened. “I didn’t know you were having bad days.”
“More and more lately, I’m told.” He let out a quiet breath, the weariness settling into his features. “The mind is a funny thing, Savannah. Some days, I remember everything—every book I’ve read, every deal I’ve made, every moment with Margaret.” His voice grew quiet at the mention of his late wife. “And other days ... I look at my grandson and see a stranger.”
“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out in Savvy’s raw, unguarded voice, not Jennifer’s polished tones. “I didn’t know.”
“Nobody knows. That’s how I wanted it.” He picked up his book, running his fingers over the worn cover. “Did you ever read this?”
“Gatsby?” I latched onto the familiar territory of literary discussion, which belonged to the old me, not the professional I’d become. “It was required reading in high school.”
“Ah, but did you read it?” His eyes took on that familiar gleam he used to get when we discussed literature. “Really read it, not just for a grade?”
“I...” I hesitated, remembering countless discussions in his study. “I thought it was a warning about the danger of living in the past.”
“Close.” He set the book aside. “It’s about trying to recreate the past. Of thinking you can go back and fix what’s broken instead of building something new from the pieces.”
Understanding hit me like a physical blow. “James?—”
“Henry told me what happened with Caroline.” His voice carried a touch of amusement. “Quite the coincidence, wouldn’t you say? You being the one to deliver that message?”
“It was just business.” But even I could hear the lie in my voice.
“Was it?” He leaned forward. “Or was it the universe’s way of saying some stories aren’t finished yet?”
“Our story is finished.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Henry made that very clear five years ago.”
“Did he?” James’s expression turned thoughtful. “Or did you both assume you knew what the other was thinking? That’s the trouble with young love—everyone’s so busy protecting themselves that they forget to actually talk to each other.”
“There wasn’t much talking involved.” I couldn’t keep the edge from my voice. “He just ... disappeared.”
“Ah.” James nodded slowly. “Like Gatsby disappeared from Daisy’s life? To protect her? To become worthy?”
“This isn’t a novel.” I stood, needing to put distance between myself and his too-perceptive gaze. “Henry didn’t leave to become worthy. He left because—” I stopped, realizing I still didn’t know why. All those years, and I’d never gotten an explanation.
“Because he thought he was protecting you,” James said gently, his voice steady but soft. “The same way I would have protected Margaret from anything—even myself if I had to. ”
I turned to face him, my heart pounding. “What are you talking about?”
“Henry never stopped loving you, Savannah.” The words struck deep, knocking the breath from my lungs. “He walked away to keep you safe, even if it meant losing you. That’s not so hard to understand, is it?”
“That’s not—” My voice cracked. “He didn’t?—”
“Didn’t he?” James picked up his book again, though his gaze stayed locked on me. “My son-in-law can be ... persuasive when he wants something. And what he wanted was for Henry to be the perfect Kingston heir. No distractions. No small-town girlfriends with dreams that didn’t fit the family image.”
The room seemed to tilt. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that sometimes the people we love make terrible choices for the right reasons.” His expression turned somber. “And sometimes the right reasons aren’t enough to justify the pain they cause.”
I sank back into the chair, my legs suddenly unable to hold me up. “Henry’s father ... threatened him?”
“He did more than threaten,” James said, his voice laced with old anger. “He prepared everything in advance—manipulating property assessments, building inspection reports, creating a paper trail that could make the marina look like a failing business whenever he needed it. Richard doesn’t just destroy things, Savannah. He establishes the mechanism for destruction, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. Makes it look like he’s three steps ahead, ready to be the executioner.”
I stood abruptly, anger and hurt warring inside me. “I’m not surprised Richard Kingston would try to control everyone’s lives,” I said, my voice tight. “But I am surprised Henry let him. ”
James watched me pace, his eyes tracking my movement. “What would you have done if he’d told you?”
“Henry could have told me. We could have?—”
“What?” James’s voice was calm, almost too calm. “Fought back? Against a man who controls half of Manhattan’s real estate? Who could buy and sell River Bend ten times over without blinking?” He shook his head slowly. “Henry was young. Inexperienced. He did what he thought would protect you. Was it the right choice? Probably not. But it was the only one he thought he had.”
Memories flooded back—the way Henry had seemed distant in those last few weeks, the unease that crept in whenever his father was mentioned, the way he’d looked at me like he was memorizing my face.
“I’ve missed our talks.” James’s voice pulled me back to the present. “The way you see straight to the heart of things. The way you made Henry laugh—really laugh, not that polite society chuckle he uses now.”
“James—”
“I have little time left.” He said it matter-of-factly, like commenting on the weather. “And I think about regret. About all the things we leave unsaid because we’re too proud or too scared or too certain we know what’s best for everyone else.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that sometimes the universe gives us second chances.” He reached for my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “And sometimes those chances come disguised as professional obligations, family requests, or coincidences that aren’t coincidences at all.”
“I can’t—” I took a shaky breath. “I can’t forget everything that happened. ”
“Of course not. And you shouldn’t.” He squeezed my hand. “But maybe you can try to understand it. To see that sometimes the people we love make mistakes because they love us too much, not too little.”
A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Morrison? It’s time for your dinner.”
James sighed with familiar exasperation. “The warden approaches.” But his eyes stayed on me, sharp and knowing. “Will you come back?”
The question caught me off guard. “I?—”
“Not for Henry,” he added quickly. “For me. I’ve missed having someone to discuss books with who reads them for pleasure, not status.”
I looked at this man who’d been more of a grandfather to me than either of my own, who’d defended me to his family, who’d seen past my small-town roots to recognize a kindred spirit.
“I’ll think about it.”
The way his face lit up was worth any awkwardness this might cause. “Good,” he said as if it were a done deal. “Bring that copy of Jane Eyre we were arguing about last time. I still say Rochester was an idiot.”
“He was trying to protect Jane,” I said automatically, falling into our old pattern.
“By lying to her?”
James’s eyebrows rose. “By making choices for her without giving her all the information?” he asked.
The parallel wasn’t lost on me. “That’s not?—”
“Same time tomorrow?” He was reaching for his book again, dismissing me with the casual authority of someone used to ending conversations on his terms.
I stood, smoothing my sweater with my hands. “Same time tomorrow. ”
At the door, I turned back. James was silhouetted against the window, the golden light framing him in shades of shadow. He looked smaller somehow, more fragile, but his voice was strong when he called out:
“Savannah?”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is admit we might have been wrong about why something happened.” He held my gaze, his expression unreadable—yet knowing, as always. “Even if we were right about how much it hurt.”
I left Madison Center with my head spinning and my heart aching in ways I thought I’d buried years ago. The Hudson reflected streaks of pink and gold, reminding me of countless evenings on the dock with Henry.
Checking my phone, I saw it was after four. I’d made it out in time.
My phone buzzed.
Henry
On my way. Traffic’s light, so I might be early.
My heart jumped. After years of silence, and now here he was, casually texting me like no time had passed. Like he hadn’t shattered everything we’d built.
Me
I’ve already left.
Henry
Savvy, wait. Please.
Me
I need space.
I shoved my phone into my bag after turning it to silent— only to see the faint glow of the screen through the fabric as a message came in.
Maddy
How did it go?
Ivy
Are you okay? Do you need us?
Me
I don’t know. James told me something about why Henry left.
Maddy
WHAT???
Ivy
We’re on our way. Where are you?
Me
No. Really. I need to process this alone.
Maddy
Since when have you processed anything alone?
Ivy
She’s running from Henry, isn’t she?
Me
I’m not running. I’m being tactical.
Maddy
Same difference with you.
They weren’t wrong. I was running—from Henry, from James’s revelations, from how I crumbled every time Henry looked at me with those eyes that still saw straight to my soul.