She looked down at Arthur Vance, then looked at the feast laid out on the massive ten-foot dining table behind him: platters of Virginia ham, scrambled farm eggs with chives, golden hash browns, and a basket of buttermilk biscuits steaming under a linen cloth.
“Mr. Vance,” Eleanor whispered, her voice trembling with an emotion so immense it seemed to shake her small frame. “Why? Why would you do all of this for two strangers who were sleeping in garbage twelve hours ago?”
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Arthur opened his eyes, gently releasing Chloe so the child could inspect the wooden dollhouse.
He rose to his full height, six feet of Pennsylvania bone and muscle, and looked straight into Eleanor’s dark amber eyes.
“Because twelve hours ago, Eleanor,” Arthur said softly, “I was a dead man living inside twenty-four million dollars.”
He walked over to the dining table, pulled out the heavy oak armchair at the head of the table, and gestured toward the feast.
