Page 71 of This Beautiful Lie
She shrugged lightly. “Somewhere along the way, it stopped being just business.”
I listened quietly, the image forming in my mind—two people drawn together by necessity, then, slowly, by choice.
“Charles never had kids of his own,” she went on. “And Helen had just taken on two grieving children—one of them still a baby. I don’t think either of them planned for love. It just… happened. Before anyone realized it, they were married. Raising the kids together. Building something out of what was left.”
Something tightened in my chest as her words settled.
Suddenly, the stories Dean had shared—the fishing trips, the rebuilding of engines—had a new significance.
It was the foundation he’d been built on.
“I still remember the year we met the Westons,” Trisha said. “I was nine, I think. It was here, at Pine Ridge.
“That’s the summer I met Thomas. He was Dean’s best friend, and, well”—her smile turned wistful—“I didn’t stand a chance.”
She kept talking as we walked, weaving stories about uncles and cousins, about how one by one the family had found their way into the firm.
“Everyone sort of ends up with a role,” Trisha said with a small shrug. “We joke that the firm is less a business and more of a family ecosystem. Some people argue, some fix problems, some just keep the rest of us from killing each other—but somehow, it all works.”
I smiled, the picture coming together in my mind. “That’s… kind of amazing.”
She laughed softly. “I guess it is. But when you work in a firm like ours, it’s almost inevitable. When you see a kid finally land somewhere safe, or watch a family find their way back to each other after months… sometimes years… it gets under your skin.” Her smile turned a little quieter. “It only takes once.”
My steps slowed without me meaning to.
Something about the way she saidsafelodged in my chest. I started thinking about the small details I’d glossed over before. The language everyone used at the banquet where I first met Dean. The way kids seemed woven into every part of their life. Not as an afterthought—but as the point.
Trisha didn’t seem to notice my shift. She kept walking, her voice light, threaded with an easy kind of pride. “We even run a small daycare through the firm for families going through the system. One of my cousins manages it.” She shrugged. “Between her and my uncle Henry, everyone ends up involved somehow.”
She said it like it was nothing special.
But this didn’t seem like it was just work—but a way of life.
She smiled to herself. “It’s messy at times, but it’s the good kind of messy.”
We walked a few more steps before she spoke again, like the thought had been trailing her for a while. “Dean’s been around longer than most of us. Not officially, of course—but he grew up in it.”
I looked at her, curious, but silent.
“He used to hang around after school. Always watching. Always asking questions. By the time he was sixteen, he was drafting documents, helping with research, sitting in on depositions like it was the most normal thing in the world.” She laughed, as though thinking back on him then was heartwarming.
I tried to picture him like that—young, serious, already carrying more responsibility than most adults—and it fit almost too easily.
Trisha slowed her pace, her steps crunching softly over pine needles. Her voice dipped into something more thoughtful. “For Dean, it’s never really been a job. He cares about this work—probably more than is healthy.” She smiled faintly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
I didn’t answer, but she didn’t need me to.
“Between custody cases, reunifications, and adoptions,” she continued easily, “you stop seeing families as paperwork. You see the waiting. The fear. The hope.” She glanced ahead, then back at me. “Dean’s been around it his whole life.”
Her steps slowed, and she hesitated—just long enough for the weight of it to settle. “I’m sure every case reminds him of his own journey. He’s the only one in the firm who’s truly lived it.”
Before I could respond, the trees thinned and sunlight spilled across the path, forcing me to blink. Voices rose somewhere ahead—laughter, movement—but my thoughts lagged behind, snagged on a single word she’d said so casually.
Adoption.
It echoed in my head, sharp and familiar, settling somewhere deep in my chest as if it had been waiting there all along.
It felt intentional somehow. Like the universe had nudged me here on purpose—walked me straight into a history I’d spent years carefully stepping around.
