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hold on Helen’s arm, a gesture that felt protective rather than possessive. "I found that the boxes could wait, Mrs. Gable. It is far more interesting to experience the neighborhood with someone who actually knows where the good punch is hidden." Mrs. Gable’s eyebrows shot up. "Is that so? And how is the house coming along? I noticed you were out in the yard until quite late yesterday. Quite a lot of effort for someone who is supposedly just here for a temporary change of scenery." The question hung in the air, a thinly veiled probe into Robert’s history and his reasons for moving to Oakwood. Helen felt the familiar prickle of annoyance, the urge to defend her privacy and his. Before she could offer a polite, deflective remark, Robert stepped in. "It is a lovely house," he said, his voice smooth and deflective. "I am finding that the more I work on it, the more I realize how much I enjoy the process of putting down roots. It is a slow business, though. Much like the gala planning, I imagine?" He pivoted the conversation back to the committee’s recent failures, effectively silencing Mrs. Gable’s curiosity. As the woman sputtered a response about the logistical nightmare of the raffle tickets, Helen looked up at Robert. He caught her gaze, and a flicker of shared amusement passed between them. They were playing the game, and they were winning. "You handled that beautifully," Helen murmured once they had managed to maneuver toward the refreshment table. "Practice," Robert said, handing her a napkin. "I spent thirty years in boardrooms. If you can handle a hostile shareholder meeting, you can certainly handle a woman who is far too invested in the placement of your garden shed." They stood by a large oak tree, sipping their drinks and watching the crowd. It was an interesting vantage point. From here, Helen noticed how many people were watching them. It wasn't just the curiosity of the gossips; there was a sense of surprise in the air. For years, she had been the widow in the quiet house, the woman who kept to herself. Seeing her laughing, standing close to a man who had only recently been a stranger, clearly unsettled the status quo. "They are whispering," Helen noted, though she found she didn't mind. "Let them whisper," Robert said, his tone softening. "It is a sign that we are being interesting. I have always preferred being an enigma to being a tragedy." The sincerity in his voice caught Helen off guard. It reminded her of the moments they had shared in her kitchen, the quiet confessions over tea, the way he had stepped in when she had stumbled. They were both carrying histories that weren't always easy to wear, but here, in the middle of a noisy, bustling gala, the weight felt lighter. A group of teenagers sprinted past, nearly colliding with a table covered in homemade jams. Robert instinctively reached out, placing a hand on Helen’s back to steady her as the crowd surged. It was a small, reflexive touch, but it sent a warmth through her that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, looking down at her. "Truly? Or are you just counting the minutes until you can retreat to your library?" Helen looked at him, really looked at him. She saw the lines around his eyes that mirrored her own, the slight weariness that spoke of long nights and heavy memories, and the genuine, unvarnished kindness that had surprised her so thoroughly. "I am enjoying myself,"