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She was unrecognizable from the hollowed-out, starving woman who had counted dimes in the Dutch Pantry diner six months ago.
Her skin was tanned golden by the summer sun; her cheeks were full and peach-colored; her amber eyes radiated an unshakeable, formidable inner authority that had made her the most respected non-profit housing director in the county.
As the executive president of the newly formed cooperative, Eleanor managed fifty-eight units of permanent transitional housing in Lancaster and Ephrata, providing free childcare, legal advocacy, and vocational training to working mothers across three counties.
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Beside her stood **Arthur Vance**, wearing his favorite gray tweed waistcoat over an open-collared white shirt, his hands resting easily in his pockets, his weathered face filled with that deep, eternal, grandfatherly pride that cannot be bought with twenty-four million dollars.
Eleanor stepped up to the microphone, her voice carrying clear, sweet, and steady across the water like a bronze bell.
