Chapter Forty-Two #3
Bruno talks about his granddaughter’s latest project.
Dario tells Angela the tomatoes on the east side of the Belmont house need more water, and she informs him that she knows considerably more about her garden than he does.
Armando eats in silence until Gio drags him into an argument about baseball.
Marco sits on my left.
Gio sits on my right.
Their knees brush mine beneath the narrow table.
No one remarks on it.
My phone vibrates beside my plate.
A message from Matteo appears on the screen.
How did the meeting go?
He knew what was happening today because I told him.
He asked if he could attend.
I said no.
He accepted the answer, although the pause on the telephone lasted long enough for me to hear how much he disliked it.
I type:
The plans are approved. Construction starts tomorrow.
His reply comes a moment later.
Your mother would be proud of you.
I look at the words.
Months ago, he would have written that she would have wanted him here. He would have used her memory to push open a door I had closed.
This time, he doesn’t.
Thank you, I write.
It is not forgiveness.
It is a beginning.
Another message waits beneath his.
Ivan.
He rarely contacts me directly. When he does, the conversations are brief and carefully worded.
Aniya asked about you.
My chest tightens.
I type several answers before erasing them all.
Is she safe?
The dots appear, disappear, and return.
Yes.
It isn’t enough.
For today, it has to be.
Tell her I think about her.
I set the phone facedown.
Gio’s attention has moved to me. The bright humor has left his face.
“Aniya?” he asks quietly.
I nod.
His hand finds mine beneath the table. His thumb passes over the rings on my finger.
Marco doesn’t ask to see the message. He waits until I turn the phone over and slide it toward him.
He reads the exchange.
“Ivan may be willing to carry something to her,” he says.
“Not if it puts her in danger.”
“We’ll find out before we ask.”
We.
Not Marco deciding.
Not Gio promising something impossible because he wants to take the sadness out of my face.
The three of us looking at the problem together.
“All right,” I say.
Marco returns the phone.
Gio keeps hold of my hand.
Angela brings out the cannoli.
After lunch, the others begin clearing the tables. I carry a stack of plates inside before Angela catches me.
“This is your celebration.”
“That doesn’t make my hands stop working.”
“You signed the papers?”
“Yes.”
“And the stairs?”
“Staying.”
Her face softens.
“Good.”
I look toward the dim back hall.
“Do you remember my mother bringing me here?”
Angela considers the question.
“Once,” she says. “Perhaps twice. You were very small.”
My breath catches. “You saw us?”
“I saw Maria through the window. I didn’t speak to her.”
“Why not?”
Her gaze drifts toward the front of the shop, toward a past visible only to her.
“Your father had recently died. There were men watching everyone connected to the Rossis. Approaching her would have made things more dangerous.”
“For her?”
“For both of you.”
I absorb that.
Another fragment of my mother’s life. Another choice she made while afraid.
“What was she doing here?”
“I don’t know.” Angela touches my arm. “But she held your hand the entire time.”
The memory doesn’t return.
Only the feeling of fingers wrapped around mine.
Perhaps that is enough.
We leave shortly before three.
Outside, the light has shifted, gilding the brick buildings and flashing against windshields along the narrow street. Marco stops beside the SUV, but I remain on the sidewalk.
Above us, the old Rossi Imports sign waits to be restored.
Gio joins me.
“What are you thinking?”
“That it doesn’t look like much yet.”
“It looks like an expensive amount of work.”
Marco comes to stand on my other side. “It is.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Gio says.
“You mentioned the expense.”
“I was being supportive.”
“You were being accurate.”
I smile despite myself.
In the front window, taped behind the glass, is a temporary paper sign.
HARBOR HOUSE
COMING SOON
The letters are plain black ink. The paper curls slightly at one corner where the tape has begun to loosen.
There is no polished lobby.
No restored staircase.
No public offices or rooms full of attorneys and counselors.
Not yet.
But tomorrow, the work begins.
“What happens now?” Gio asks.
I look at the building.
“Now we build it.”
Marco’s shoulder touches mine. Gio’s hand settles at the small of my back.
From a distance, we probably look ordinary.
A woman standing between her husband and his twin brother.
No one passing us can see the two rings resting together on my finger. No one knows which brother gave me which one.
No one sees the glances they exchange over the top of the SUV or the way they both wait for me to move first.
I turn toward them.
“Are we going home?”
Gio opens the door for me. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Marco waits until I climb inside before following.
The gates at Belmont open before we reach them.
For six years, home was the place I couldn’t leave.
Then it became the place I was afraid to trust.
Now, as the house appears beyond the trees and the gates remain open behind us, I understand what it was supposed to be all along.
Not a cage.
Not a debt.
Not something another person can choose for me.
A place to return to while I build what comes next.
* * *