Instead, she spoke for several minutes, her lips moving in a steady, measured rhythm.

Rebecca listened, nodding slowly, her eyes glistening, though she did not cry.

After exactly thirty minutes, Caroline stood up.

She left the velvet box on the table, untouched.

She walked out of the bakery, the small brass bell above the door chiming softly in the quiet morning.

She opened the passenger door of my car and climbed in, smelling faintly of cinnamon and roasted coffee beans.

“How did it go?” I asked, turning the key in the ignition.

“She wanted to give me her mother’s ring,” Caroline said, looking straight ahead at the road. “I told her I didn’t want it.”

“Was she angry?”

“No. She understood. I told her we could write to each other once a month. No phone calls yet.”

“That seems very fair, Caroline.”

“It’s practical,” Caroline said, pulling her seatbelt across her chest. “We don’t know each other. You can’t build a bridge without testing the soil first.”

The autumn arrived with a crisp chill that turned the maple trees along our street a deep, burning orange.