The realization that he both knew her interests and that most special of secrets she’d shared with no one . . . and that he spoke so very matter-of-factly and not with disdain . . . filled her heart with a wonderful warmth. She nodded. “Her works are . . . relatable. She paints a world any person might feel and understand.” She braced for him to dismiss those opinions, as her instructors and family had when she’d sought to discuss her new reading passion. Only he didn’t, and Myrtle relaxed all the more in speaking freely with him. “So many times, I’ve longed for silence. I’ve dreamed of a household that was completely quiet and devoid of all the din that so often comes.” Myrtle turned her eyes forward and back to the dancing flames. “Only to now find myself completely alone and missing the noise and hating the silence. It . . . terrifies me,” she confessed, expecting him to make one of his dismissive responses.

“I used to hate the silence, too,” he said quietly, stunning her with that admission and bringing her head whipping sideways.

This time, however, his gaze remained locked on the fire he’d brought to life in the grate, his eyes distant. “In the silence, I’d sit with only my regrets, and the memories of . . . the past would rage in those moments. Until one day, I made myself sit with that silence. I made myself stop and listen through my own tortured thoughts and the quiet, and I discovered there was a peace in that quiet. I came to find it wasn’t something to be feared but embraced for the focus it allowed me.”

How lonely he must be. And this time, she made no attempt to conceal her study of him; she couldn’t. Myrtle looked on, taking in the sight of him simply watching the fire, wanting to know more about him, and the pain that lingered in every word he ever spoke. “Those memories . . . Were they of your wife?” she ventured.

Were they of his wife . . . ?

His heart hammered, and his mind screamed at him to storm to his feet and make a swift march from this household and the lady’s questionings.

Because he didn’t talk about his wife.

Because people didn’t ask about her.

Even his brother’s annual attempt to gather Val for the Christmastide Season only vaguely referenced that day, but never did he ask about it or speak of it.

Even so, Val sat, unnerved, disquieted by the ease with which this woman now spoke of his loss and his past.

He slid a hard glance her way and made a tsking sound. “Listening to gossip, are you?”

“My brother mentioned that you were a widower.”

“Gossip,” he said icily. And this oddly soothed him. It reminded him that Myrtle McQuoid was just a stranger and nothing more to him than that.