Ethan had meant it when he said he knew what he was buying. “But why this building?” Walter asked. Ethan looked uncomfortable with the scale of his own answer.
“Because I found your wife once.” Walter turned sharply. Not in person, Ethan explained. Years after recovery, he searched the Homefront Quilts label online because he wanted to send a donation.
He found Prairie Star’s website, an old newspaper profile about Ruth, and photographs of her standing with military families under the shop sign. He mailed a check once with no note beyond THANK YOU. Ruth sent back a handwritten card that said, Glad you made it the rest of the way. Walter closed his eyes.
That sounded exactly like her. When Ethan later heard through a veteran business network that Prairie Star was closing after Ruth’s death, he saved the article. Weeks passed. Then the auction listing appeared.
He called the auction company for the packet, drove down once at night to look at the building from the street, and spoke with his bank. “I didn’t know if I’d actually bid,” he admitted. “Then I got here and heard Mr.” Holloway say it was settled.
Maya muttered, “That helped.” Ethan smiled faintly. “Yeah.” It did.
Walter did not smile. He had spent seventy-four years learning to distrust gratitude when it arrived carrying more money than sense. “What are you going to do with it?” he asked. Ethan met his gaze.
“That depends partly on you.” Walter stiffened. “No.” Ethan blinked.