Chapter 6 - “What?”
He saw my expression.
“Claire?”
“What did Mom know about the Russos?”
His face went blank.
Not guilty.
Confused.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
My phone buzzed again.
This time Dominic.
I found a letter written by my father eighteen years ago. It mentions your mother by name.
I stared at the screen.
My mother had never met Dominic.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
Dominic did not make me come to the mansion.
He brought the letter to me.
That mattered.
Two weeks earlier, I might not have noticed.
Now I noticed everything.
He arrived at my apartment at seven in the evening carrying a worn cream envelope inside a protective plastic sleeve.
I opened the door.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
He looked different.
Not dramatically.
His clothes were still immaculate.
His posture was still straight.
But something in him had loosened.
Perhaps control became tiring once a person discovered it could not protect anyone from pain.
“You cut your hair,” he said.
I touched it automatically.
I had taken three inches off that afternoon.
“You noticed.”
His expression was almost offended.
“Claire.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Come in.”
He entered.
His gaze moved around the apartment.
The books stacked beside the sofa.
The yellow tulips Noah had brought.
The ridiculous blue kettle Tessa insisted I needed.
Three candles burning on the windowsill.
Dominic stopped at those.
“You hate candles,” I said.
“I hate scented candles.”
“These are scented.”
“I am practicing personal growth.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound seemed to surprise both of us.
For a moment, we stood there looking at each other.
Then Dominic lifted the envelope slightly.
“This belonged to my father.”
The warmth disappeared.
“Sit.”
We sat on opposite ends of the sofa.
Dominic removed the old letter.
“My father wrote this to my mother eighteen years ago, when he was considering leaving several parts of the family business.”
“Your father wanted out?”
“Of anything questionable, yes.”
That tracked with what I knew.
Dominic’s father, Anthony Russo, had spent the last decade of his life moving the family toward legitimate businesses.
Dominic had finished what he started.
“The letter mentions my mother?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Dominic handed it to me.
The paper was thin with age.
Anthony’s handwriting was neat.
The relevant paragraph began halfway down the second page.
I met with Margaret Mercer today at the hospital foundation. She has agreed to introduce us to two people who may help finance the new shipping company without using the old partnerships. She said something I will remember: if we want our children to inherit something clean, we have to begin cleaning it before they are old enough to see the mess.
I read it twice.
Margaret Mercer.
My mother.
“She knew your father.”
“Apparently.”
I kept reading.
Another paragraph mentioned her.
Margaret says her daughter is stubborn, kind, and far too serious for eleven. I told her Dominic is solemn enough for three children, so perhaps someday they can form a support group.
I stared at the line.
Then at Dominic.
He looked almost embarrassed.
“Our parents joked about us?”
“When we were children.”
“That is deeply unsettling.”
“Yes.”
“And strangely funny.”
“Also yes.”
I looked back at the letter.
There was more.
Anthony wrote that Margaret had helped him secure introductions to legitimate investors through her work with the hospital foundation.
My mother had spent years in nonprofit administration before she became ill.
I remembered little pieces.
Dinners where she discussed donors.
Calls from board members.
People who sent flowers after she died.
I had never connected any of it to the Russos.
“Why didn’t your mother know?”
“She did not remember the surname.”
“Mercer isn’t exactly rare.”
“No.”
“And your father?”
“He died before your father approached me about the debt.”
I carefully set the letter down.
“So our families crossed paths before any of this.”
“Yes.”
“Does that change anything?”
Dominic considered the question.
“No.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“It explains something about my father. Perhaps something about your mother. But it does not excuse your father lying, and it does not excuse me withholding the truth.”
I studied him.
A few weeks ago, Dominic would have used history as evidence.
A reason.
A justification.
Now he simply let it be information.
That was new.
“Why are you selling the house?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Elena.”
“Elena.”
He sighed.
“She believes privacy is a character flaw.”
“She’s not entirely wrong.”
“No.”
He looked around my apartment.
“The mansion was my father’s choice. Before that, my grandfather’s.”
“And?”
“I have spent most of my life living in buildings selected by dead men.”
Something about that sentence touched me.
“The house never felt like mine,” he continued. “I assumed that did not matter.”
“It matters.”
“I know.”
“What will you do?”
“I rented a place downtown.”
I blinked.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“In an apartment?”
“Yes.”
“With neighbors?”
His mouth twitched.
“I understand there may be several.”
I laughed again.
“What about Mrs. Alvarez?”
“She informed me she is coming twice a week because she does not trust me to operate a washing machine.”
“She’s right.”
“I successfully washed a shirt yesterday.”
“What color is it now?”
Dominic paused.
“An unexpected shade.”
I covered my mouth.
He looked so offended by my laughter that I laughed harder.
And suddenly I remembered something important.
This was the first time I had ever sat alone with my husband and simply enjoyed him.
No debt.
No estate.
No family.
No arrangement hanging above us.
Just Dominic sitting on my sofa discussing laundry.
When my laughter faded, the room became quiet.
He looked at me.
“I miss that.”
“What?”
“You laughing.”
My chest tightened.
“You barely heard me laugh when we lived together.”
“I know.”
“Whose fault was that?”
“Primarily mine.”
“Good answer.”
“I have had several weeks to study.”
I looked down at my hands.
“I miss you too.”
The confession changed the air.
Dominic went still.
I continued before fear could stop me.
“But I don’t know what that means.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I miss your coffee.”
“I can teach you.”
“I know how to make coffee.”
“Not correctly.”
“There he is.”
A smile appeared.
Then faded.
“I miss knowing you were downstairs,” I said.
His gaze softened.
“I miss the ridiculous way you line up your shoes.”
“They are organized.”
“They are arranged by mood.”
“That is organization.”
“I miss finding the lamp on when you knew I would come home late.”
He looked away briefly.
“I miss hearing you talk to Noah in the kitchen.”
My throat tightened.
“I miss hearing you pretend not to listen.”
“I was not pretending very well.”
“No.”
Silence settled.
Not awkward this time.
Careful.
“You know what I don’t miss?” I asked.
“What?”
“Wondering whether you wanted me there.”
His face became serious.
“You will never have to wonder that again.”
“That sounds like a promise.”
“It is.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I can keep that one.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then asked the question that had been waiting beneath every other question.
“Why didn’t you come after me?”
Dominic frowned.
“The night at Adrian’s?”
“After.”
“You asked for space.”
“You listened.”
“Yes.”
“You never listen.”
“That is unfair.”
“You once moved an entire dinner party because I mentioned the dining room was cold.”
“It was cold.”
“You had thirty people relocated.”
“Twenty-six.”
I smiled.
Then became serious again.
“You could have shown up with flowers. Letters. Grand gestures.”
“I considered all three.”
“And?”
“You asked to choose.”
His eyes held mine.
“I finally understood that if I wanted any chance with you, I had to stop trying to influence the answer.”
My eyes stung.
That was when I understood the difference between the man I had married and the man sitting beside me.
The first had believed love meant protecting people from difficult choices.
The second was beginning to understand that love required letting them make those choices.
Even when the answer might hurt.
My father began therapy.
I did not forgive him quickly.
That surprised him.
I think some part of him believed taking responsibility would earn immediate absolution.
It did not.
But we started having coffee once a week.
At first, we discussed practical things.
Bills.
Noah.
The storage unit.
Then, slowly, Mom.
He told me stories I had forgotten.
She once backed their car into a mailbox on their first date.
She hated pears.
She had wanted to go to Italy when they retired.
May you like
He cried once.
Quietly.
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