Chapter 4 - “You want to leave.”
It wasn’t a question.
I glanced toward the dance floor.
“Your brother hasn’t cut the cake.”
“He’ll survive.”
“He might care that you disappeared from his wedding.”
“He’s been trying to get rid of me for two hours.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Across the room, Matteo caught Alessandro looking at him.
He pointed toward the exit and mouthed something.
I couldn’t hear it.
Alessandro looked annoyed.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to take you home.”
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I smiled despite myself.
“Your terrifying reputation is suffering terribly tonight.”
“It will recover.”
We said our goodbyes.
Marco did not stop me.
That mattered.
He simply took a card from his pocket and handed it to me.
“My private number.”
I accepted it.
“No assistants?”
“No assistants.”
“No security people?”
“No.”
“No mysterious lawyers?”
A faint smile appeared.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes, you do.”
He nodded.
“When you’re ready, Grace.”
I put the card in my purse.
“I don’t know when that will be.”
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“I waited twenty-eight years to understand your mother.”
His expression softened.
“I can wait a little longer for you.”
The drive back to the Moretti mansion was quiet.
Chicago slid past the windows in ribbons of light.
I expected Alessandro to ask what Marco had told me.
He didn’t.
Finally I turned toward him.
“You’re not curious?”
“Very.”
“But you’re not asking.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked out the window.
“Because everyone else in your life seems to have decided they were entitled to make choices about your family before you were.”
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Then his gaze met mine.
“I’m trying not to become another one.”
That landed somewhere deep.
“Thank you.”
He nodded once.
A minute passed.
Then I said, “There’s supposedly another document.”
His eyes shifted toward me.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Marco says it explains why my mother never went back.”
“Did he say what it was?”
“No.”
“What he thought it was?”
“No.”
“That is considerably less useful.”
I smiled.
“So you are curious.”
“Grace, I have spent most of my adult life being accused of many things. Patience has rarely been one of them.”
“I’ve noticed.”
That night I slept badly.
By morning, I had made one decision.
I was not going to chase powerful men around Chicago asking them to explain my mother to me.
I was going to start with my mother.
Her belongings were stored in a small rented unit forty minutes away.
For four years, I had paid the monthly fee without opening most of the boxes.
Grief had made storage easier than decisions.
At ten in the morning, I requested the day off.
Mrs. Alvarez, the Morettis’ head housekeeper, waved me away.
“Go.”
“I haven’t even told you why.”
“You have the face of someone who needs to go somewhere.”
“That’s surprisingly specific.”
“I raised four children and one husband. Faces are easy.”
I drove to the storage facility alone.
At least, I thought I did.
When I parked, a black sedan pulled into a space several rows away.
I stared at it.
Ethan climbed out.
I rolled down my window.
“Seriously?”
He approached.
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“I’m under instructions not to interfere.”
“You followed me.”
“I prefer ‘remained available at a respectful distance.’”
“Did Alessandro send you?”
Ethan considered lying.
Then apparently remembered who he was speaking to.
“Yes.”
I pulled out my phone and called Alessandro.
He answered on the second ring.
“You found Ethan.”
“I found the six-foot-four man pretending not to follow me in a black sedan.”
“He’s bad at subtlety.”
Ethan looked personally offended.
“I can hear you,” he said.
I spoke into the phone.
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“Why?”
“Because journalists photographed you last night.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course they had.
“Is anyone bothering me?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I don’t need protection.”
“No.”
His agreement surprised me.
“Then why is Ethan here?”
“Because I worried.”
The simplicity of the answer stopped me.
There was no command behind it.
No demand.
Just worry.
“I don’t like being followed.”
“Understood.”
A pause.
Then Alessandro said, “Ethan.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Go get coffee.”
Ethan stared at the phone.
“For how long?”
“Until Grace calls you.”
Ethan looked at me.
I almost laughed.
“That could be hours.”
“I like coffee,” he said flatly.
He left.
The storage unit smelled of cardboard, dust, and old fabric.
For the first fifteen minutes, I found nothing meaningful.
Winter coats.
Dishes.
Tax files.
My father’s fishing gear.
Then I found the green wooden box.
The same one my mother had held years ago.
Inside were photographs, letters, a dried flower pressed between two sheets of paper, and the silver bracelet engraved M.B.
Beneath everything lay a small notebook.
My mother’s handwriting filled the first page.
Recipes.
Grocery lists.
Reminders.
Then, halfway through, it became something else.
A diary.
Not regular entries.
Occasional thoughts written months apart.
I sat cross-legged on the floor and read.
June 14.
Marco wrote again. I still don’t know how to answer him. He thinks saying he misses me is the same as understanding why I left. Maybe someday he will learn the difference.
November 3.
Sofia says Vittorio is being impossible. I told her Marco has made impossible into an art form. We laughed until Grace woke from her nap.
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I stopped.
Grace.
I had been there.
Our mothers had known each other after I was born.
Another entry.
February 19.
Sofia visited today. She thinks the men can still fix things. I think she is more hopeful than I am. The house belongs to all of us, but that was never the point. It was supposed to be a place our children could belong without choosing sides.
I kept reading.
Then I found a loose page tucked into the back cover.
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A letter.
Not to me.
To Marco.
Marco,
You keep asking what it will take for me to come home.
Stop asking me to come home.
Ask whether I am happy.
Ask whether James is good to me.
Ask what Grace loves.
Ask what music I teach my students.
Ask who I became after I stopped being the person everyone expected.
If you can do those things, perhaps one day we can meet somewhere that belongs to neither of us.
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Mariana.
My eyes filled.
There it was.
The entire reason in one page.
My mother had not wanted money.
Or property.
Or an apology dramatic enough to erase the past.
She had wanted her brother to become curious about her life.
I read the letter three times.
Then my phone rang.
Marco.
I almost ignored it.
Instead, I answered.
“Hello?”
“Grace.”
He sounded uncertain.
For a man who controlled rooms full of executives, uncertainty suited him surprisingly well.
“I hope this isn’t too soon.”
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“It probably is.”
“I can call another time.”
I looked at the letter.
“No.”
A pause.
“I’m in my mother’s storage unit.”
He became very quiet.
“I found something she wrote to you.”
“What?”
I read him the first sentence.
You keep asking what it will take for me to come home.
Marco inhaled sharply.
“I never received that.”
“I figured.”
“What else does it say?”
I hesitated.
Then I read it.
Every word.
When I finished, the line remained silent so long I checked the phone.
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“Marco?”
“I spent years telling myself your mother was stubborn.”
His voice had changed.
“She was.”
I smiled through my tears.
“She definitely was.”
He laughed softly.
“Yes.”
Then he said, “But she was also right.”
There was no excuse attached.
No defense.
“I kept talking about family when what I meant was family on my terms.”
I looked around the storage unit.
“My mother wasn’t perfect.”
“No.”
“She could hold a grudge over a board game for weeks.”
“Months.”
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“She hated admitting she was wrong.”
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“Since childhood.”
I laughed.
