The city is what had brought us together, at another party. Someone had been commenting on the wind that day, howling off the lake like a wild beast, and another guest had joked that’s what you expect from the Windy City. I mentioned that Chicago got that name from its politicians, historically known for their bluster, a situation that hasn’t changed. James had chimed in, and we went off on a riff about the weather and the politicians, entertaining our fellow guests, and it was the first time I’d seen him as someone other than the son of a family friend, someone I’d paid no more mind than the furniture.

When our group had broken up to mingle, he’d steered me into a corner to talk Chicago history, which sounds like an inauspicious start to a relationship, but when James spoke about his city, there was a passion—a spark and a light and a humor—that made me say, “Wow, he’s not what I expected at all.”

Now I stood at his funeral, watching them prepare to lower his casket into the ground, as I sweated in my dress and thought about that party and looked out past the treetops at the city skyline, and I remembered him, all the best of him, because there was so much that had been good. And I cried. I cried and I cried.

Gabriel was careful that day. He stood at my shoulder, but slightly behind me, so even if I turned, I couldn’t see him or—more important—check how he was reacting to my tears. Yet he stayed close enough that I could feel him brushing against my back and hear the whisper of his breath.

Gabriel may not have been able to provide a shoulder to cry on or a warm embrace to fall into, but he did everything he could to make up for that.

The crowd was huge. Hundreds of people, from colleagues to college friends, from those who’d supported his father as senator to those who’d hoped to see James in that seat. We were a hundred yards from the grave site, too far to catch more than snatches of the service. Also too far to catch anyone’s eye, but as it was winding down, someone said, “Oh, excuse me. Didn’t see you there,” and I started to turn, but Gabriel’s hand moved to my shoulder, keeping me still.

“Mr. Walsh,” the man said. “Ms. Jones. Sorry. I didn’t know it was—”

“Yes, you did,” Gabriel said, his voice a deep rumble. “And if that phone rises another inch, I will take it from you. I will not take it gently. Nor will I return it in one piece.”

“I’m not trying to—”