The first time he saw her, it'd been at a distance.

She was standing on the balcony, looking out onto the street. She wore a dark blue sequined dress and the feather from her headband waved gently in the wind. Her shoulders slumped forward, her elbows rested on the balcony's rail, and she looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but where she was—such an odd juxtaposition to the roaring party happening just below her.

In the ballroom below, the Blanchards' guests were dressed to the nines, dancing and laughing while they enjoyed the free-flowing bootlegged champagne and orchestra, relishing in the excess and pomp that came from the generosity of their hosts.

Then, he knew little of the Blanchard's marriage.

Leopold was a banker. He was considerably older and had been married before, and from that marriage he had a daughter. Mary-Margaret was sixteen and every bit as beautiful as everyone claimed her mother was, with her deep hazel eyes and creamy skin—details he only knew because when the girl had cut her long, dark hair into a fashionable bob, her picture found its way to the front page of the society column. It hung in the barber shop beneath his apartment and local working-class girls came in flocks to copy her style.

He'd rolled his eyes at her picture. She was still a doe-eyed, baby-faced child—but someday, in the not so distant future, she'd marry, and she and her husband would be groomed to take the place of her father and stepmother. Her alleged innocence and compassion would fade and self-interest would take its place. The Blanchards apparently also had a son, but he'd never seen him. Presumably, he attended school somewhere else and rarely visited; and though he had no solid proof to back up that assumption, people of the Blanchards' social set didn't have a use for children. Until they were adults, they were merely in the way…

And Regina Blanchard was a busy woman—and not unlike her step-daughter, she was something of a local legend.

For as long as he could remember, he'd known her name.

Her family was tremendously wealthy, and when her engagement to Leopold Blanchard was announced, there was heavy speculation that she was even richer than him. Everyone knew the Blanchards hadn't married for love, there'd really been no question of that, and from what he'd seen and heard, they'd never bothered to pretend that that was the case. From the start, it was clear that something else had led to their union; it wasn't a far leap to assume that that something was money. After all, people like the Blanchards could never seem to have enough of it.

Rumors of their marriage soon ceded to rumors of her affairs; and just before the war, a rather unsettling story swirled around town about her cruel treatment of the house maids. She was cold and aloof on the good days and unleashed onto them a fiery temper on the bad days—and by every account, the bad days outnumbered the good ones. Coupled with the other details he knew of her, he'd had no desire to know her. She was everything he hated—frivolous with her spending and stingy with her obligatory pet causes, only caring when a newsboy from the local paper was sent with a camera. So while she held a prominent position on the hospital board and gave regular donations to the local school and orphanage, it was hard to believe that she actually cared about any of those things.

The war had changed a lot of people; there hadn't been much choice in that. The dead came from all walks of life and all ranks of the social classes. Yet for some, it touched them to a far lesser degree.

When he was on leave, he'd caught a glimpse of a story in the paper. The writer gushed of the sacrifice of Regina Blanchard's personal time—how amazing it was that she'd shown up regularly to cut and roll bandages for the Red Cross, how she'd personally penned letters to soldiers and assembled care packages for wounded soldiers unable to come home. The story was complete with a picture of her in a fur stole and a brooch that could've easily bought six months of rations of the soldiers she pretended to care about. He'd laughed a week later when rumors began to swirl of yet another scandalous affair—this one with the Major who'd been put in charge of Red Cross contributions.

While no one could discount that Regina Blanchard was an involved philanthropist, there was no question that her kindness was self-motivated, and likely a cover. She got something from her charitable work and that dimmed its relevance, and frankly, left a bad taste in his mouth...

So, the week before, when John asked him to pick up and deliver an order to the Blanchards, he'd rolled his eyes and begrudgingly agreed— he had no idea how that delivery would transform his life.

In that moment, he'd truly wanted nothing to do with the Blanchards; but, then again, he didn't want much to do with any of his customers.

Of course, he had no qualms about taking their money—they all had more than anyone could count—but he didn't fraternize with them. There was no small talk upon their delivery nor did he care what they planned to do with the excess of alcohol they illegally purchased from him. He assumed they liked it this way. The less anyone knew of their illegal activities, the better…

He wasn't proud of what he did for a living. He was well aware that it could easily earn him a private room at Sing Sing. But it put food on the table and kept a roof over his son's head, and when he considered that, he couldn't see any real issue with it; besides that, he didn't have much of a choice.

When the war ended, he'd naively thought that was the end to the pain and suffering; he'd assumed things would just go back to the way they were, and the lucky ones could simply go on with their lives and forget the rest had happened…

But when he came home to his wife, the quaint, sleepy little town where he'd grown up was just as jaded and disillusioned as the rest of the world. That was understandable, of course, but he hadn't realized just how few "lucky ones" there were. Most of the boys he'd grown up with didn't make it home, and he was unprepared for the guilt that came with his luck.

It seemed inappropriate to complain that the little bar that had been his father and his grandfather's livelihood had shut down shortly after he'd deployed, and the reality of the new prohibition laws had set in. They'd tried to hold out; everyone was so sure that that law couldn't be enforced, but it was. He'd learned about it through letters from his father and from Marian, and while the war still raged on, he was hopeful that he'd find work; after all, he was young and strong, he'd done reasonably well in school, and before the war, jobs were plentiful. New industry seemed to be popping up left and right; opportunity was everywhere.

Yet, when he returned home, securing employment for more than a few weeks proved to be more difficult than it should've been. The loud noises of the factories made his hands shake and his brow sweat, and the confined spaces of the coal mines a few towns over left his heart racing and a tight knot in his gut. Every loud voice, every whistle, and every bang sent him back to the trenches. The barbed wire and the shellings, the cries from the wounded, and the overwhelming feeling of dread that came with knowing that nothing could be done overwhelmed him—and it was worse now than it was while he was in the thick of it. He'd freeze in place as those memories flooded him, rendering him immobile—and rendering him useless on the job.

After it happened a couple of times, he knew better than to return to the job—it didn't matter how empathetic an employer was, if he couldn't function in the job, he'd be fired. That was that. So, for a few years he bounced around constantly, picking up temporary odd jobs here and there, hoping that this time things would be different. But they never were and the embarrassment that came with each loss made him wonder if everyone had it wrong—he wasn't lucky at all to have made it home. And just when he thought he couldn't sink lower, he had found his just-barely six-month old son crying in his cradle while his mother moaned from the bedroom. He grabbed Roland and tried to comfort him while he ran to Marian, finding her barely conscious and delirious. In that moment, he felt a terror like no other he'd experienced before. He yelled for help as Roland screamed in his arms, and the woman next door called the doctor. But it was no use and two days later, Marian was gone.

Marian's funeral was the lowest point of his life—yet in a strange way, it'd also been a turning point.

It'd been the end of the night when Marco, one of his father's former suppliers and a life-long family friend, arrived with his wife. Marco gave him a tight hug as he offered his condolences and pressed a bottle of whiskey into the breast pocket of his jacket, offering a little wink as he pulled back and mumbled something about getting through. Robin nodded and thanked him, and then when all the guests were gone, John opened it and poured them each a drink.

He's not sure now how it came up or who first suggested it, but the more they drank the more sense it all made—and really, he was desperate. A few days later, he spent what little money he had to buy a second-hand truck, and a week later, he and John took Roland up to Canada for a visit and to make Marco an offer. They returned to Vermont with their first load of bootlegged liquor…

Suddenly, he had steady income. Word quickly spread around town, and monthly trips turned into weekly trips which turned into bi-weekly trips for both him and John. This had gone on for years now. They had regular customers and had made quite a nice living for themselves; and best of all, he couldn't get fired when he had a bad day.

Regardless of who went, they always took Roland; after all, it was hard to suspect foul play when an adorable curly-haired five-year old with long eyelashes explained they were crossing the border to go and see his late-mother's parents. It wasn't entirely a lie—John and Marian had grown up without parents and Marco had always kept an eye on them—and though he wasn't entirely sure why Roland decided to tell the story that he did, the border guards believed it and always just waved them through, never stopping to look through the wood crates in the back of the truck.

On that first delivery to the Blanchards, he'd gone alone. The Blanchards were usually John's customers, but he was picking up more stock (or, as he'd tell the border guards, picking up his late-sister's son from a visit with his grandparents), so he'd gone in his place. He hadn't expected a party to be in full-swing, and he hadn't expected to have to haul it all in on his own. Yet, that's exactly what he found when he arrived; only Regina seemed to be waiting for him, and given the way she was dressed, she'd be little help.

Nonetheless, when he caught her eye, her shoulders straightened up and she disappeared back into the house. A moment later, she was opening up the back door to let him in, her checkbook in-hand.

"I'll send someone to bring in the crates," she'd said, barely looking at him. "It'll be just a minute. Everyone's in the ballroom."

"Sure," he'd replied curtly as the door closed behind him.

"Apparently this was not an expected order." She offered a little grin that faded when it wasn't returned.

"Yes, so often people need an emergency shipment of champagne in the middle of the night."

She'd looked sharply at him, but bit her tongue and returned her attention to the check and for a moment, it seemed like that would be the end of it. But then she'd looked up, waiting until she caught his gaze. "Better than in the light of day."

He'd scoffed. Of course, she couldn't help herself from being snide.

"I think this covers it?"

"I'm sure it does."

"I added on a bit for your trouble."

"Thank you."

He'd stared at her and she'd stared back.

Finally, it was Regina who broke the awkward silence between them.

"I thought you might bring your son."

"And why would you think that?"

She'd blinked. "Well… what else would you do with him at eleven o'clock on a school night?"

"I wouldn't wake him, that's for sure." His eyes narrowed, and though he knew he should, he couldn't just leave it there. "How do you know anything about my son?"

She'd looked away. "He got an award at school. For being first to know the alphabet, I think. I think he'll do well when he moves up to first grade." His brow had arched as she looked pointedly back at him. "My signature is next to his principal's."

"Oh."

"I suppose you didn't notice."

He had noticed; he just hadn't cared.

She'd drawn in a breath as she looked around, presumably waiting for whomever had been tasked with helping him unload his truck and bring in the cases of liquor.

"I wanted to meet him."

"Why?"

She'd shrugged and when she looked back at him, it'd been impossible not to notice the change in her gaze as she offered a weak little smile. "I… like children. He seems bright and I wanted to congratulate him personally."

"You could've come to the award ceremony," he'd told her as his arms folded. "You could have congratulated all of the children who received awards."

"I couldn't make it."

"Of course not."

Her jaw had tightened and once more, she'd looked away, her eyes shifting again to the doorway. "You make it sound like I didn't want to be there."

"Well, we do have a tendency to prioritize the things that truly matter to us."

"Yes," she'd agreed, her jaw still tight as her fingers twirled the glass beads that hung around her neck. "We do."

"You have a son, don't you?"

"Yes. Henry."

Nodding, his eyes narrowed as he thought back to her earlier comment about it being a school night. "He's not here, though, is he?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your son. He doesn't live here, does he?"

She was offended. He could tell—and for some reason, he liked that he'd gotten under her skin. "I'm not sure why that's any of your business."

"It's not. Just as it's none of your business where my son is."

"Touché," she'd muttered as her arms folded.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I suppose you will whether or not I want you to."

A soft chuckle escaped him. She was right about that—and truly, he was just curious. "If you like children so much," he began. "Why send your own son away?" He wasn't sure what compelled him to ask her something like that, really, but as soon as the question left his lips, he regretted it; and unlike the moment before when he was glad to have gotten under her skin, he wished more than anything he could take back the question. "I'm sorry—"

For a moment, she'd just stood there as his words hung on his lips. Her eyes narrowed and she'd looked him up and down, and he was sure that she was about to lash out as she famously did; yet, her voice remained still—chillingly still.

"You think you know me, don't you? You've heard stories and seen pictures, and from that you've got me all figured out. But you don't know a damn thing about me. You see what I want you to see, and nothing more." For a moment, he thought she might leave it there, but she didn't. Instead, she took a step inward so that they were standing nearly toe-to-toe. "Yes," she'd begun, her voice dropping an octave and sending a little chill down his spine, "I sent my son to school in another country; but don't presume you know anything about him or me based on that detail alone."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you did," she'd cut in. "You absolutely meant to."

She hadn't clarified what it was that he'd meant to do, exactly, but she was right. He did mean to say what he did and imply what he did; that didn't mean that he didn't regret it.

"Here's the thing, though," she continued, "Instead of judging the sort of parent I am based on where I sent my son to get an education, try considering why I might've done that." His eyes pressed closed as he'd tried to formulate an apology, but before he could, she went on. "Don't assume that I didn't think the local schools weren't good enough for him. Quite the contrary, actually, especially given the amount of money I've poured into them."

"You're right—"

"I know." He'd taken a breath as she stepped back, and he was glad for the distance. "Unlike you, I won't make an assumption about the sort of parent you are, and I'm willing to venture you'd do anything to protect your son."

He'd nodded. "That would be correct."

"So, don't think that I wouldn't do the same."

With that, she'd turned on her heels and walked out of the room as she muttered that someone would be there to help him eventually. He'd only nodded and watched her go.

The second time he met her, it'd been to drop off another order and a letter that contained his profuse apology. The third time, he'd gone to see if she'd accepted it. She'd rolled her eyes and muttered a curt, Yes, I suppose I can forgive you, if it means that much to you, before two footmen joined them to carry in two cases of wine; and on the fourth time he met her, it was by chance.

He was picking Roland up from school to take him up to see Marco and Eugenia. Roland had been chattering on about his "Granny's" lasagna and stopped abruptly to tie his shoe, and that's when he noticed her.

She wore a plain yet bold, red silk dress, and though he didn't doubt that it cost an extraordinary amount of money, nothing about her outfit, outside of its color, was over the top or screamed for attention. There was no newsboy with a camera nearby; in fact, no one was around at all. It was just her and a little girl with a skinned knee—a little girl he'd seen on the playground and around town. The little girl's cheeks were tear-stained, but she was no longer crying as Regina tended to her bleeding knee. He'd watched as she'd cleaned it up and cut a bandage, all the while smiling as she spoke to the girl. He couldn't quite hear what she was saying, but the little girl laughed as she lifted her up from the counter and placed her feet back down on the floor—and then, he watched as Regina reached into her pocket and gave the girl a little candy wrapped in a metallic red paper. The little girl ran off and Regina watched her go, offering a wistful little smile as she did.

His eyes narrowed and a little smile tugged up from the corners of his mouth; but before he could make himself known, or decide if he even wanted to do that, Roland gave his hand a hard tug and dragged him out of the schoolhouse. He'd laughed as he looked back at his son, shaking his head as Roland whined about being able to practically taste the lasagna he knew was waiting for him—and with one final look back at Regina, he found himself smiling at her. In some ways, this version of her didn't seem real; yet, at the same time, he was fairly certain that this was the realest version of her—a version not many had the chance to see.