Decision

"You're very quiet tonight," Grace observed as they walked through the gathering dusk. "Is something wrong?"

"Hm? Oh—sorry. I was just thinking . . . about work."

The last two words were spoken with an effort that was not lost on her. Harold's work was not a subject that he cared to bring up often. Her next remark was as soft and unobtrusive as she could make it.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

His hand stayed in hers, but her every nerve was straining to feel whether he was mentally pulling away. Watching his face carefully, she discerned that he was trying hard not to.

"I have a decision to make," he said finally, slowly. "About Nathan."

Nathan . . . Grace had heard that name only a couple of times, never joined with any last name. Which was more than she had ever heard about any of his other colleagues.

"What about Nathan?" she asked quietly. His tone had suggested something unpleasant, even painful. "Is he—is he doing something unethical?"

"No, it's—not that. I think he . . ." Harold drew a deep breath. She had never seen him struggle for words like this. "I think—he's actually trying to do—the right thing. But he's doing it in a way that—I—I'm afraid it could be reckless. Even . . . dangerous."

He released her hand then, and walked a few paces away to lean against an old oak that loomed beside the park path, as she stood there staring at him.

"Dangerous—how?"

He looked at her with troubled eyes, and shook his head slightly.

"I can't . . ." he trailed off, and sighed. "I—I'm sorry."

Grace bit back the frustrated response that rose to her lips. She had accepted this odd secretiveness of Harold's a long time ago—even encouraged him to go at his own pace when it came to revealing things about himself. Something in her had sensed and trusted the man's essential kindness almost as soon as she had met him, making surface details seem less important. At least most of the time. There were moments when she wondered—sometimes whimsically, sometimes a little less so—whether he would go to his grave someday leaving her still ignorant of some of the most basic facts about him.

But he had trusted her with this much—for him, a great deal. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't need her help.

She left the path and came over to stand near him, not touching him, but keeping her eyes locked on his.

"If he's trying to do the right thing," she said as calmly as she could, "then, Harold, you should support that. Support him. It isn't just about business." Whatever business that is, her mind added. "Nathan is your friend. He needs you."

Later she would remember the strange mix of emotions that dawned on his face: resolution, and relief, and—fear? Before she even had time to wonder what was making him so afraid, he reached for her hand and pulled her close.

"You're right," he murmured into her hair, after a long moment. "Of course, you're right."