Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
True to her word, Brooke called the next day with the name of the attorney handling the sale of the land at Fifth and Willow. Even before Brooke said the lawyer’s name, Cora knew—just knew—it would be Evan Graham.
She was going to see him again—not in a dream, not in a book, not in the soft blur of what might have been, but here, in the bright edge of real life.
Thankfully, with him involved, she wouldn’t have to worry about hostility or stonewalling.
Aaron had never been abrupt or dismissive, not in the lives she remembered and not in this one, where her interaction with Evan had been brief but kind.
He would listen. He would hear her out. Then he’d share any concerns he had, and they would talk.
What she couldn’t prepare for—what she had no script for—was the emotional storm waiting for her the moment his eyes met hers across a conference table.
Would he recognize that flicker of connection the way she did? Would he feel it, too? Had he already felt it?
She didn’t know. But the thought of seeing him again had adrenaline humming through her veins from the moment Brooke said his name.
Now, with tomorrow’s meeting approaching, Cora wasn’t sure how she was going to make it to one o’clock without unraveling.
The weekend had been torture—too much thinking, too little sleep, memories brushing against her like whispers.
She’d spent Sunday organizing every document, labeling each file with the meticulous precision of someone trying to control anything she could.
By evening, she’d bought a moss-green dress, soft and understated, the kind of thing that felt like confidence without trying too hard.
She told herself it didn’t matter.
She didn’t quite believe it.
By Monday morning, she couldn’t eat. Not even toast. Her stomach had betrayed her at too many inopportune moments for comfort. Aaron used to joke about it. Feeding time at the Graham Zoo. The kids would growl, and they’d all laugh.
The memory hit like a stone dropped in deep water. She had to grip the steering wheel as she pulled into the visitor’s lot at Collister.
Focus, she told herself. This is business. Nothing more.
She sat for a long moment with her hands braced on the wheel. Deep breaths. In through her nose, out through her mouth. She felt like she was about to walk onto a stage—or jump off a cliff.
Maybe it was both.
Inside, the receptionist led her down a quiet hallway. Cora barely took in the framed photos of Collister’s early years. Her heartbeat was too loud in her ears.
“In here,” the woman said brightly, opening the door to a small, polished conference room. “Mr. Graham will be with you shortly.”
Cora stepped inside. The room was simple—table, chairs, a pitcher of water—but to her, it vibrated with possibility. And risk.
She took the seat facing the door, placed her folder on the table and tried to still her shaking hands.
The click of the door latch startled her.
She lifted her gaze.
And he walked in.
Evan entered with quiet confidence, a leather folio tucked under one arm, a charcoal suit softening the lines of his shoulders. But it was his eyes—warm brown, steady—that nearly undid her.
He paused when he saw her. Just a breath. But something softened in his expression, like a memory tugging on the edge of his awareness.
“Cora,” he said, and her name from his mouth felt like a small miracle. “Good to see you.”
“You, too.” Her voice was steady. Her heart wasn’t.
Then, with the faintest smile, he asked, “Did you enjoy the reunion?”
“I did,” she said, matching his quiet tone. “How about you?”
“Good. Crowded,” he admitted with a wry shrug. “But good.”
It was ordinary small talk, but the air between them hummed all the same.
Evan took the seat across from her, setting his leather folio on the table. Before opening it, he pulled out a business card and set it beside his notes, a small, automatic courtesy he probably didn’t even think about. “A. Evan Graham” was embossed in deep navy.
Then he opened the folio. “You mentioned you have documents related to the library land?”
“I do.” She slid the packet toward him. “And supporting correspondence.”
He took the deed first, eyes sharpening as he read. Then he reached for the copies.
He flipped once. Twice.
And paused.
“These are…impressively organized,” he murmured.
Before she could respond, he brushed a thumb along the labeled tabs, the color-coded flags, the margin notes written in her neat script.
“This,” he said quietly, “is how librarians organize archival material.”
Cora blinked. “I am a librarian. Currently unemployed,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “But I’ve been offered a position in Dayton starting in January.”
His gaze lifted, warm. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Only then did he return to the documents. A few beats passed in silence, broken only by the sound of him turning pages.
“This deed outlines very specific terms. I believe those terms were overlooked in the plan to sell the land.”
He scanned the page, brow furrowing slightly. “Where did you find this?”
She reused the half-truth she’d given Brooke. “My relative, Lenora Summerbell, left…breadcrumbs. I followed them and found these.”
“I see.” He nodded, absorbing that. “And the others?”
“I brought copies.” She met his gaze steadily. “The originals are staying with me.”
He didn’t question her. He accepted the copies and continued reading, quiet filling the room.
Cora watched him—the focused way he read, the thoughtful pause he always took before speaking. Familiar. So painfully familiar.
Finally, he looked up.
“At first glance,” he said, “this does appear to be a deed with a reverter clause. It gives the land under a condition that must be honored.”
“I’m not an attorney,” Cora said, “but that’s what it looks like to me, too.”
“You’re right. And the language is unusually…poetic.” His brow furrowed. “‘Let the ground return to the one who remembers why it matters.’” He looked back to her. “That’s remarkable phrasing for a legal document.”
“It mattered to her,” Cora said softly. “To Lenora.”
His expression gentled at that.
“I’d like time to review this more closely,” he continued. “And to examine our files. Would it be possible for us to meet again once I’ve done that?”
“Of course.” She closed her folder and rose. “My contact information is included. Text or call, whichever is easiest.”
He stood as well, stepping forward to shake her hand.
Her stomach growled.
Loudly.
Mortifyingly.
Then something in him cracked open. The faintest spark of amusement lit his eyes. Not mockery. Not discomfort.
Recognition.
Or something very close to it.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Sorry. I, um, skipped breakfast. And lunch.”
His answering smile was real. Warm. Familiar.
“I haven’t eaten yet either,” he said. He hesitated, the kind of pause that wasn’t uncertainty so much as consideration. “The food trucks are out today. If you’d like, I can walk with you, show you which ones the students swear by.”
Her breath caught.
Was he asking her to lunch?
It felt like it.
It felt dangerously like it.
But she wasn’t na?ve. This could be politeness. Professional courtesy. Nothing more.
Still—
“I’d appreciate that,” she said softly.
He nodded once, almost shyly, and gestured toward the door.
Her stomach growled again.
This time, they both laughed.
“And there they go.” Cora offered a wry smile as the last food truck’s taillights disappeared around the corner.
The quiet that followed felt oddly intimate—just the two of them, the hum of campus in the background, the faint scent of grilled onions lingering in the air.
“I forgot they leave promptly at one thirty.” Evan shifted his weight, one hand slipping into his pocket. “There’s a little place just off campus—Big Sal’s. Nothing fancy, but the food’s good.”
“B–Big Sal’s?” Cora’s smile bloomed before she could stop it. “I love that place.”
His expression eased into genuine pleasure. “It’s a favorite of mine, too.”
“You know what I really like about it?”
“What?”
“They give you extra pickles.”
He laughed, a rich, full sound that carried in the warm autumn air. The tension in her shoulders melted.
“I take it you’re a fan of pickles.”
“Any kind, but dill pickles especially.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “If I’m going there…and you’re going there… We might as well go together?”
Perhaps go together wasn’t the perfect phrasing. She didn’t want him thinking she was coming on too strong.
Or did she?
“Sure.” His smile turned softer, almost conspiratorial. “I’d say lead the way, but it seems we both know where we’re headed.”
Cora stepped inside Big Sal’s and was immediately wrapped in the comforting hum of familiarity.
It was little more than a hole in the wall tucked between a dry cleaner and a pawn shop.
A narrow counter ran the length of one wall, its Formica top edged in chrome.
Two small tables hugged the opposite side, and the air smelled of frying onions, cracked pepper and years of stories soaked into the linoleum.
Big Sal’s booming voice greeted them before his broad frame came into view. He looked older now—his once-dark hair gone entirely to silver, his walrus mustache streaked with gray—but his eyes still twinkled like he’d just heard the world’s best joke.
“Welcome to Big Sal’s,” he called from behind the counter. “What can I get you?”
“Pastrami on rye, extra pickles,” Cora said without hesitation. The words came out with the ease of muscle memory.
“Same for me,” Evan added, his tone carrying a faint note of surprise. “And a Coke.”
“Iced tea,” Cora said quickly, reaching into her bag for her wallet. Her fingers brushed the worn leather, grounding her in the moment.
“Eat in or to go?” Sal asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
“I’m staying.” She glanced at Evan, pulse flickering.
“I can sit for a few,” he replied, his voice steady, unhurried.