Chapter 9 - SOMEONE WHO LIKED THE ACCENT
Three years after the gala, I met Thomas Reed.
Not at an investor conference.
At a livestock auction.
Life has humor.
He owned a regional cold-storage company Harlow was evaluating for partnership.
He heard me speak and said:
“Virginia?”
“Yes.”
“Shenandoah?”
“Close.”
“My mother’s from Staunton.”
That was it.
No embarrassment.
No joke about country accents.
No suggestion I should “polish” the way I spoke in executive rooms.
On our third date, I told him about Daniel.
Not every detail.
Enough.
Thomas listened.
Then asked:
“Do you worry I’m interested because of Harlow?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I blinked.
“Good?”
“You should.”
He smiled.
“Trust should take time.”
That was possibly the least romantic thing anyone had ever said to me.
I liked him immediately.
We dated slowly.
Separate homes.
Separate finances.
Clear agreements.
My younger self might have called that unromantic.
My older self called it peaceful.
Thomas once came to the farm and spent six hours helping my mother repair a broken gate.
Daniel would have hired someone.
Neither approach was morally superior.
But when Thomas came inside covered in mud, Mom whispered:
“This one knows how to shut up and work.”
Her highest blessing.
We married two years later.
Small ceremony.
Farm.
No ballroom.
No champagne poured on anyone.
Mom insisted we serve cider.
May you like
I allowed it.
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