Page 27 of Morally Black Betrothal

Instead, I kept asking questions. “So, you two grew up in Vermont? Any other siblings?”

“No, it was just the two of us. My family has a place near Woodstock. A farm.” To my goddamn delight, a bit of light entered her expression. “The dairy side used to pay the bills, but we made goat cheese too and sold eggs and produce at the local farmers’ markets.”

“So, you’re a farm girl?”

She giggled, and my heart gave a massive thump of victory. And I didn’t even have to pay a cent for it.

“So, what was that like? Did you spend your childhood gallivanting through lush green meadows and milking cows? It sounds so idyllic and American.”

Another giggle. I practically levitated.

“You make me sound like Laura Ingalls Wilder. It was hardly idyllic.”

I watched, rapt, as one graceful finger tapped her very soft-looking bottom lip.

“Well, some parts were. But mostly it’s a lot of hard work caring for animals and raising produce like that. Before my mom died, my parents ran a tight ship. After…well, my dad tried, but he’s bad with numbers. The farm has been struggling for a long time, so I stayed in the city to work, and I send my extra cash to help. Last year, tips from businessmen like you paid for the new furnace.”

I frowned. She was telling me one story—that of a simple country girl with deep ties to her roots—but I was hearing another. One about a daughter exploited by her family. Expected to pick up the pieces when the rest couldn’t get their shit together.

It was unjust and unfair.

And far too familiar.

“Was he a good father?” I couldn’t help but ask.

I hoped she’d answer yes. I hoped she’d say that even if her dad couldn’t make the money to give his daughter the future she deserved, at least he filled her life with love. I hoped she would give me a reasonnotto exploit her dire straits and vulnerability in order to fulfill my own agenda.

Instead, Simone blinked rapidly and started polishing her glass again, even more intensively than necessary. “He tried. Sometimes he was great. He’s kind. Gives great hugs, and I never want to let go because his flannel shirts are so worn and soft. We love watching old musicals together. His favorite isSouth Pacific. When he was in a good mood, he’d put on the soundtrack and sing ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ to my mom like he was Rossano Brazzi.”

Another sweet smile played on her mouth.

“They sound like they were really in love.” It was a nice fairy tale, anyway.

“They were, I think. To hear my dad tell it, it was love at first sight. They met when my mom’s family was visiting Woodstock on vacation. She and Dad went into an ice cream shop on the same day. They both picked chocolate chip. Two weeks later, her parents left, but she stayed, and the two of them got married in our living room. My sister and I were born nine months later.”

“And now? Why do you think he…”

“Faded?” She shrugged, though the pain was evident in the hunch of her shoulders. “That’s how I think of it, I guess. It’s not his fault he had no idea what to do with two young daughters. Eventually, he let us…go, I suppose. Do what we wanted while he didn’t do much of anything. I don’t think he knew what else to do. I think when Mama died, it was like he lost his anchor. He just sort of drifted.”

Was it possible that sadness could make someone more beautiful? Those blue eyes glittered with pain, that pink bottom lip swelled after she bit it too hard, those cheeks reddened with emotion.

The urge to pull her into my arms and kiss away that sadness howled inside my chest. “My mother’s gone too.”

Simone’s gaze met mine, full of sympathy.

“Not dead,” I corrected. “Just…gone. She and my dad were married. Twice, actually—a sordid story I won’t bore you with. But they split up permanently when I was still young, and my father made sure she was gone for good. Since I was about twelve, I’ve only ever seen her once a year.”

The facts felt foreign. I wasn’t used to talking like this. Give and take. Opening up and letting her into my personal life and in return, sampling her stories like they were a hundred-year-old port.

My life was Blackguard. Cutting remarks and business reports were what I gave, and my family’s temper tantrums were what I took.

This was new.

Amazingly pleasant and normal, but definitely new.

Simone and I blinked at each other over the bar while something that sounded like Jim Croce played on a jukebox. The song was familiar.

My past, present, and future collided with a force that nearly knocked me off my stool.