Rebecca studied him. “Do you always speak in metaphors?”

“Only when I’m tired.”

That evening, she discovered she’d packed no casual clothes. Her mother’s assistant had sent one suitcase of formal dresses, silk blouses, high heels, and cosmetics — a wardrobe designed for lunches, fundraisers, and board meetings.

Nothing suitable for cooking in a cramped kitchen or walking to a neighborhood market. Matthew noticed. Without comment, he set a folded gray T-shirt and a pair of drawstring sweatpants outside her bedroom door.

The shirt was too large and the pants had to be rolled at the waist, but they were the most comfortable clothes she’d worn in years.

At two in the morning, unable to sleep, Rebecca stepped into the living room for water. Matthew sat upright on the couch in the darkness.