Chapter Seven
Livy
“Are you gonna be my mama’s husband?”
Mr. Moretti freezes.
Not a lot.
Most people probably wouldn’t even notice.
But I do because I have sharp eyes.
His hand stops halfway to his jacket pocket, and his eyes move from where Mr. Skip is walking away from Bobcat Billie’s area to me.
I stand beside the snow cone truck with my clipboard held against my chest because I’m working today. I’m not just running around like the other kids. Mama said I’m a helper, and helpers have responsibilities.
Also, I have a pen with my name on it.
That makes me official.
Mr. Moretti looks down at me for a few seconds, then slowly turns his body toward me like I asked him something very important.
Which I did.
“That’s a very big question, little one.”
I tilt my head. “Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s weird.”
The corner of his mouth moves like he wants to smile but isn’t sure he should.
“Is it?”
“Yes. You’re very tall, and you have nice clothes, and you looked at my mama like she was a cupcake in a room full of vegetables.”
He blinks.
Then he laughs.
It’s not a big laugh, but it still makes his whole face change. Not all the way. Just enough that he doesn’t look quite so scary.
“I looked at your mother like she was a cupcake?”
“Yes,” I say. “A fancy one. With swirly frosting.”
“I see.”
“And she looked at you like she forgot her own name, which is weird because she knows a lot of things.”
His eyes move over my head, probably looking for Mama.
She’s near the feed table talking to someone with a camera. She’s smiling, but she keeps rubbing her fingers against her palm when she thinks no one is looking.
I see it, though.
I always see it.
“Mama needs a husband,” I tell him.
His attention comes back to me. “Does she?”
I nod. “But not Rory.”
“Who’s Rory?”
“He works here. He’s nice, and he can carry heavy stuff, but he’s not right.”
“What makes him not right?”
I think about that for a second.
“He listens to Mama too much.”
Mr. Moretti’s eyebrows lift.
“She needs someone who doesn’t listen when she says she’s fine,” I explain. “Because sometimes she says that when her fingers and toes are white, or when her feet hurt, or when she’s been outside too long, or when she’s sad about an animal dying but doesn’t want me to know.”
His face gets very still.
The scary kind of still.
But not scary at me.
Scary for someone else.
“Mama takes care of everybody,” I tell him. “But nobody really takes care of her but me.”
Mr. Moretti crouches down in front of me, even though his suit probably costs too much money to be that close to dirt.
I like that.
Grown-ups who are afraid of dirt usually don’t belong here.
“What kind of husband do you think your mother needs?” he asks.
I look him over.
His shoes are shiny, but there’s dust on them now from walking around the sanctuary.
His jacket is fancy, but he didn’t act mad when Sabrina got snow cone syrup on his sleeve.
And when Mr. Skip wanted to pet Bobcat Billie, Mr. Moretti didn’t yell.
He just said something quiet, and Mr. Skip walked away.
That seems useful.
“She needs someone strong,” I say. “But not mean strong. Safe strong.”
He nods slowly.
“And someone who likes animals.”
“I do like animals.”
“You didn’t pet the goat.”
“The goat tried to eat my cuff link.”
“That means he likes you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And you have to be able to pick Mama up if she’s being stubborn.”
His mouth twitches again. “Does she need picked up often?”
“Yes. She’s always stubborn.”
“I see.”
“She also needs someone who won’t leave when things get hard.” My fingers tighten around my clipboard. “My first daddy did that. He said the sanctuary was too much work, and Mama was always tired, and I cried too much when I was little.”
Mr. Moretti’s face changes.
His smile is gone, and he looks angry.
“What is your father’s name?”
“Mama says I’m not supposed to give personal information to strangers.”
His eyes soften. “That’s very wise.”
“But I can tell you he’s not invited here.”
“No,” he says quietly. “I imagine he’s not.”
“And if you’re gonna be Mama’s husband, you can’t leave like he did.”
“I understand.”
“You also have to be nice to her.”
“I would be.”
“And not just because she’s pretty.”
“She is very pretty,” he says.
“I know. But she’s also smart. And she works too hard. And she forgets to eat when she’s busy. And sometimes she cries in the barn when she thinks I’m asleep.”
His jaw tightens.
I don’t think he likes that.
Good.
Neither do I.
“So,” I say, lifting my chin, “are you gonna be her husband or not?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.
Then he reaches out and gently straightens the corner of the paper clipped to my board.
“I think,” he says carefully, “that your mother should be the one to decide who becomes her husband.”
I sigh.
Grown-ups always make things harder than they need to be.
“I know that,” I say. “But she gets distracted.”
“Does she?”
“Yes. She has animals and bills and Raynaud’s syndrome. So sometimes I have to help her so she doesn’t get too sick.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“I’m a very thoughtful lady.”
“I can see that.”
I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, piccola,” he says. “I did not.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t make promises I’m not certain I can keep.”
I think about that.
Mama says promises matter. She says they shouldn’t be thrown around like free candy at parades.
“Okay,” I say finally. “That’s a good answer.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I didn’t say I approve. I said it was good.”
“Important difference.”
“Yes.”
He stands, and for a second, I think the conversation is over.
Then he looks down at me again.
“But I will tell you this, Olivia.”
My whole name sounds fancy when he says it.
“If your mother ever needs someone to stand between her and something that means her harm, I’ll be there.”
My chest feels funny.
Warm and tight.
Like when Mama hugs me after I’ve had a nightmare.
“And if you need someone?” he continues, his voice softer now. “I will be there for you too.”
I stare at him.
He looks serious.
Not like grown-ups who say things because they think kids won’t remember.
I remember everything.
Especially promises.
Even almost-promises.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His eyes get softer.
“Okay.”
I look back toward Mama.
She’s laughing now, but I can still see the tired in her shoulders.
Then I look at Mr. Moretti again.
“You should start by making sure she drinks water.”
His mouth curves.
“I can do that.”
“And eats lunch.”
“Yes.”
“And doesn’t let people be mean to her.”
His expression turns dangerous in a way that makes me feel safer, not scared.
“That,” he says, “will be my pleasure.”
I nod once, satisfied.
“What if it’s her body?” I ask.
Mr. Moretti goes still again.
“Explain,” he says.
“You said you’d stand between Mama and anything that causes her harm.” I tighten my fingers around my clipboard. “What if the thing causing her harm is her own body?”
His eyes sharpen.
“Raynaud’s?” he asks, remembering what I said earlier.
I nod. “Yes. Mama had to have one of her fingertips taken off because her body killed it.”
Mr. Moretti seems like the kind of man who keeps most things locked behind his eyes, but I see it anyway. The way his jaw tightens. The way his gaze flicks toward Mama across the yard.
She’s smiling at the photographer, pretending everything is fine like she always does.
“She says it isn’t dramatic,” I tell him. “But it is. Her fingers and toes turn white, and sometimes her nose, and she acts like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. Bodies aren’t supposed to fight themselves.”
“No,” he says quietly. “They’re not.”
“Can you stop that?”
For the first time, he doesn’t answer right away.
Adults usually answer fast when they want to make kids feel better. Mama does that sometimes, even though I can tell when she’s making her voice too soft.
Mr. Moretti doesn’t do that.
He thinks about it.
Then he crouches in front of me again.
“I cannot stand between your mother and her own body, little one,” he says. “Not the way I can stand between her and a person who means her harm.”
My heart sinks a little, even though I already knew that.
“But,” he continues, “I can pay attention. I can make sure she’s warm. I can remind her to eat and drink when she forgets. I can make sure she has doctors who know what they’re doing. I can make sure she has help so she doesn’t push herself until her body punishes her for it.”
I look toward Mama.
She’s laughing, but one hand is tucked under her opposite arm like she’s trying to warm her fingers without anyone noticing.
Anyone but me.
“And when she says she’s fine?” I ask.
Mr. Moretti’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious.
“Then I will not believe her.”
That makes me feel a little better.
“Mama says she knows her limits,” I tell him.
“She may,” he says. “But knowing your limits and respecting them are very different things.”
I stare at him.
That sounds exactly like Mama.
Like the kind of thing she would say about a horse but not herself.
“She doesn’t respect them,” I say.
“No,” he agrees, looking toward her again. “I’m beginning to see that.”
“She’ll be mad if you boss her around.”
“I imagine so.”
“She gets this wrinkle between her eyebrows when people tell her what to do.”
“I noticed.”
“And sometimes she uses a very polite voice when she’s really angry.”
His eyes flick back to mine, and for a second, I think he might laugh.
“I noticed that too.”
I nod, satisfied that he’s paying attention.
Good.
He’ll need to.
“You can’t let her forget about herself,” I say. “She forgets all the time.”
Something soft moves across his face. Sad, maybe. Or careful. I’m not sure.
“I’ll do my best,” he says.
I study him for a long moment.
“Okay,” I say finally.
“Okay?”
“You can date my mama.”
His brows lift. “I have your permission?”
“For now.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“I know.”
He smiles then.
“Livy!”
Mama’s voice carries from across the yard.
I turn and see her waving me over, holding out the radio I forgot at the welcome table.
Oops.
“I gotta go,” I tell him. “I’m very important today.”
“I can see that.”
“But don’t forget what I said.”
“I won’t.”
Then I run toward Mama before he can ask any more questions, because I wasn’t lying. I’m very important today, and I have a schedule to keep.