Page 37 of Ten Day Affair

“Like houses?” she asks.

“Like everything,” I say. “Commercial. Residential. And in some cases, corporate debt. If the right opportunity shows up, of course.”

Something flickers in her expression. It could be curiosity, or maybe it's suspicion. “That seems like a wide range.”

She doesn’t ask the follow-up, doesn’t press. Which is good. Because the house wasn’t just an investment. It was leverage. A calculated move to get me closer to the board before anyone traced the debt purchase back to Kings Holdings.

As far as Sam knows, I’m just a neighbor with a decent Scotch collection and bad work-life balance. That’s exactly how I need it to stay.

Her wineglass finds her lips again. “So when you're not flipping houses or fixing corporations, what do you do for fun?”

I laugh because that question always stumps me. “I work and travel. I don't do hobbies, but I enjoy nice restaurants where I go, drinking good liquor, and meeting people along the way. Work is my fun.”

“Sounds interesting, I guess.”

“It’s productive,” I counter.

She leans forward, tracing the rim of her glass with one fingertip. “So what exactly is the board voting on next week? I’ve heard rumors, but nothing concrete.”

There it is.

I keep my tone even. “A revised budget proposal. Some operational changes. Consolidations in a few departments. The usual cost-cutting bullshit that keeps hospitals from bleeding out.”

Her smile holds, but the shift in her posture is subtle. Almost a little too still. “So it’s that bad?”

“Bad enough to force decisions. No one wants to cut for the sake of cutting, but keeping the lights on takes more than good intentions.”

She looks out toward the water, quiet for a beat. Thebreeze sweeps a strand of hair across her cheek, and she tucks it behind her ear.

“I know what the numbers say, but that place isn’t just numbers to everyone. It’s people. It’s history.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to, thankfully. The server reappears with fresh drinks, dropping them between us like punctuation. Then he picks up her empty wine glass, a burgundy crescent on the rim where her lips have been. My drink sits barely touched.

"I'm glad my mom isn't here to see all of this."

Something tightens in my chest. "Tell me more about her. I know you mentioned her vision, but was she also a doctor?"

Sam traces a line through the condensation on her wine glass. “She started as an oncology nurse. Worked her way up to hospital admin. She believed everyone deserved dignity in their worst moments, no matter what was in their bank account.”

I nod, watching her more than the words.

“She saw families lose everything trying to save someone they loved. I think that’s what drove her. It was a mission to make sure Good Samaritan stayed a place that said yes, not one that asked for a credit card first.”

I wait a beat. “I admire that.”

“Yeah. She grew up with nothing. Got turned away once when her sister was sick. She never forgot.”

Her voice thins out on that last part. She looks up, eyes catching the soft candlelight.

I could tell her I know what that’s like. That I grew up the same way, scraping by, always a step behind. But I don’t. Because unlike her mother, I didn’t set out to fix the system. I learned to beat it.

“She got sick out of nowhere. It was stage four at diagnosis. Five months from then to the funeral.”

My hand tightens around my glass. Still, I say nothing.

She exhales, light but not casual. “Heavy dinner topic. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. She sounds like she gave a damn when it mattered most. I can tell she meant a lot to you.”