“He stopped drinking, but he never stopped being mean.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t waste energy on it. He was who he was. Once I left, I rarely came back. Harrison and I visited once, right after he’d stopped drinking. It didn’t go well.”

“He wasn’t a kid person?”

Toby thought about how Harrison, only four at the time, had been playing a toy drum. His grandfather had told him to stop making so much noise. Harrison had—for about two minutes. Then he’d started up again. Toby’s father had backhanded the boy, sending him stumbling into a wall. Only Judy physically putting herself between Toby and his father had kept him from going after the old man. He’d packed up their suitcases and they’d left, never to return. Only Toby had come back for the funeral.

“Let’s just say he never saw the point in children,” he told her lightly, grateful when Howard arrived with their drinks.

“You said before you work with inventors,” Toby said, as much to change the subject as because he was interested. “What does that mean?”

“I started out in applied design. Working with engineers to make sure the product was something that humans could interact with easily. I was a tiny cog in a very big company. When I was offered a buyout, I took it.” She smiled. “By then I had a lot of contacts and wanted to try making it on my own. So I started a little business, and by little I mean it’s just me.”

“And you help inventors bring their products to market?”

“Not in a marketing sense. I help them make sure their product is easy to use. The start sequence for a high-tech blender has to pass the grandma test.”

“Not fifteen buttons and a Bluetooth hookup?”

“Exactly. It’s fun work. I set my own hours and I meet interesting people. Sometimes it’s frustrating because success isn’t automatic. Great products that will never get to market.”

“But you still get paid?”

The smile returned. “Sometimes. A lot of my clients are rich with ideas but not so much with the actual cash. If I believe in what they bring me, I’ll get a cut of the action. If they make money, I do, too. If they don’t, then I chose badly.”

Which sounded easy enough, he thought, but required an incredible business sense and a trust in her gut instincts.

“What’s your success rate?” he asked.

“About sixty-forty. Sixty percent have done well. Some have done very well.”

He leaned toward her. “You’re rich.” His tone was both humorous and accusing.

“I’m not.” Her brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “I do okay.”

“You own your own house?”

“I bought a place a year ago. It’s a cute little bungalow just north of Seattle. I also have a retirement fund, so there.”

“Congratulations.”