At seventy-four, I thought loneliness was the most dangerous thing that could happen to an old man with too much money and too many empty rooms.
I was wrong.
My name is Walter Bennett, and for nearly fifty years I had been married to Eleanor Bennett, the only woman who could walk into my study while I was negotiating a multimillion-dollar contract, put a sandwich beside my elbow, and say, “Eat before you become unbearable,” without the slightest concern for who was listening.
Eleanor died eight years before the night Lily Cole stood in front of me with tears in her eyes and whispered, “Mr. Bennett, if you trust Mrs. Hale until Monday, you may not be allowed to make another decision for yourself.”
Before Eleanor died, Ravenswood Estate had never felt large. It was simply home. There were flowers she planted beside the south terrace, a kitchen she remodeled three times because she could never decide where the island belonged, and a library where our children had done homework while I pretended not to notice them stealing chocolates from my desk drawer. After her funeral, the same rooms seemed to grow overnight. I could walk from one end of the house to the other without hearing another human voice.
My daughter, Sophie Bennett, visited every Sunday at first. My son, Ethan Bennett, usually came on Thursdays after work. They were both grown, with lives of their own, and I tried hard not to become the father who turned his grief into their obligation. Eventually I encouraged them to visit less.
“I’m not ninety,” I told Sophie once when she asked whether I wanted her to stay the weekend.
“You’re seventy-two.”
“Exactly. Practically an adolescent.”
She rolled her eyes, but she left.
The truth was that I hated watching them drive away.
That was the state I was in when I met Vanessa Hale.
It happened at a preservation fundraiser inside Grand Evermere Hall in Bellmere. I had donated money to restore several historic buildings around the city, mostly because Eleanor had loved architecture. Vanessa was sitting two chairs away from me during dinner. She was thirty-eight, poised, striking, and possessed the rare talent of making a person feel that whatever he happened to be saying was the most interesting thing she had heard all week.
She knew who I was, of course. Most people in that room did. I had spent forty years building Bennett Commercial Holdings before selling most of my active interests and retiring. Vanessa, however, never asked about the company. She asked what I did on ordinary Tuesdays.
