Chapter 9
“She said if I invited you under false pretenses again, she would personally alter my medical chart.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“I’m not willing to test that.”
I laughed.
“When is it?”
“Friday.”
“I’m working.”
“I checked.”
“You checked my schedule?”
A pause.
“That sounded worse after I said it.”
“Yes.”
“I asked Evelyn.”
“That sounds only slightly better.”
“I’m learning.”
There was something warm in his voice.
I sat on the edge of my sofa.
“Damian.”
“Yes?”
“What exactly are you asking?”
Silence.
Not avoidance.
Care.
He chose the words slowly.
“I’m asking whether you would have dinner with me.”
“At another ballroom?”
“Before the ballroom.”
“That is a suspicious amount of ballroom.”
“I can change the location.”
“Good.”
“Restaurant?”
“Too public.”
“My penthouse?”
“Too much home-field advantage.”
He sighed.
“You are difficult.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“Harbor?”
“Cold.”
“Clara.”
I smiled.
“There’s a small Italian place near my apartment.”
“What time?”
“Seven.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “All right.”
That mattered.
More than him insisting would have.
“Friday,” I said.
“Friday.”
Neither of us hung up.
Finally I asked, “Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Wear whatever you want.”
I smiled.
“That may be the first sensible thing you’ve said since we met.”
“I’m improving.”
“Baby steps.”
He groaned.
“You’ve been talking to Sofia again.”
“Good night, Damian.”
“Good night, Clara.”
I ended the call.
Then looked toward the crimson dress hanging inside my closet.
I did not choose it Friday.
I wore dark green.
Because I liked dark green.
That was reason enough.
The Italian restaurant had twelve tables and a handwritten menu.
Damian arrived three minutes early.
I arrived exactly on time.
He stood when he saw me.
His eyes moved over me.
Not slowly this time.
Not possessively.
Simply appreciatively.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
No complicated response.
No deflection.
I sat.
He did too.
For the first twenty minutes we talked about nothing important.
Bread.
Boston traffic.
A terrible sculpture his mother had purchased at the charity auction.
Then Damian told me he was thinking about selling two waterfront companies.
“Why?”
“I don’t want them.”
“That has never stopped wealthy people from owning things.”
“I’m discovering ownership is not the same as obligation.”
I watched him.
“Your father?”
“Partly.”
“What would you do instead?”
“Expand Crosswell.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Dr. Shaw would like that.”
“Not the private clinic.”
“What, then?”
“Public clinics.”
I stopped.
“Really?”
“Three, maybe four.”
“For people who can’t afford Crosswell?”
“For people who shouldn’t have to need connections to receive good care.”
My father would have loved that.
The thought came automatically.
Then I corrected it.
“I like that.”
Damian noticed.
“You were going to say something else.”
“I was going to say my father would have liked it.”
“And?”
“I’m trying to stop making decisions according to what dead people might approve of.”
He considered that.
“Your father sounds wiser every time you disagree with him.”
I smiled.
“That might be the most accurate thing anyone has said about him.”
Dinner ended at ten.
We walked outside.
Boston had turned cool.
Damian offered me his coat.
“I’m fine.”
“I know.”
He held it out anyway.
“That sentence usually comes before someone ignores my answer.”
He lowered the coat.
“Sorry.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You actually stopped.”
“You told me to.”
“This is remarkable growth.”
He laughed.
Then we began walking.
At my building, we stopped.
Neither of us seemed certain what happened next.
That felt strangely comforting.
Damian Cross, who could reorganize shipping routes while looking at the harbor and intimidate a ballroom by simply entering it, did not know how to end a first date.
Good.
Neither did I.
“I had a nice time,” I said.
“So did I.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Charming.”
“That came out wrong.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“Clara.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you take the job at Crosswell?”
I frowned.
“We covered this.”
“No. You said it paid more than the emergency room.”
“It did.”
“That wasn’t the whole reason.”
I thought about it.
He was right.
“I was tired.”
“Of what?”
“Being needed by everyone.”
He waited.
“In the ER, every shift felt like standing in the middle of a storm. People needed something constantly. Patients. Families. Doctors. Other nurses.”
“And Crosswell?”
“Quieter.”
“You wanted to disappear.”
The words were not criticism.
That made it easier to admit.
“A little.”
I looked toward my building.
“After Dad died, Mom leaned on me. After Mom started doing better, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had spent so long being useful that I wasn’t sure what I wanted.”
“And now?”
I looked at him.
“I’m working on it.”
He nodded.
“Me too.”
That was perhaps why this worked.
Neither of us needed the other to arrive finished.
The front door opened behind me.
An elderly neighbor stepped out with a terrier.
“Evening, Clara.”
“Evening, Mrs. Walsh.”
Her gaze moved to Damian.
Then back to me.
Her expression became delighted.
“I see.”
“You see nothing.”
“I’m seventy-eight. I see everything.”
She walked away.
Damian watched her go.
“I like her.”
“You would.”
Then he looked at me.
“May I kiss you?”
There was something unexpectedly vulnerable about a man like Damian asking.
Not assuming.
Not reading silence as agreement.
Asking.
I smiled.
“Yes.”
The kiss was gentle.
Brief.
Warm enough to change something.
Not enough to define everything.
When we separated, Damian rested his forehead lightly against mine.
“This is unfamiliar territory,” he murmured.
“For Boston’s most feared mafia boss?”
He drew back.
“I’m a developer.”
“Of course.”
“Also, ‘most feared’ seems difficult to quantify.”
“I’m sure your public relations department appreciates the correction.”
He smiled.
Then stepped back.
“Good night, Clara.”
“Good night.”
I went inside.
He waited until the lobby door closed.
Not because he thought I couldn’t enter a building safely without supervision.
At least I hoped not.
Maybe simply because sometimes caring about someone meant watching them go.
And sometimes it meant trusting them to.
Three months later, the Cross-Bennett Medical Trust held its first public board meeting.
I hated the name.
Everyone else voted for it.
The trust funded five community programs in its first cycle.
Every recipient was public.
Every dollar was audited.
Peter attended as a guest.
So did Adrian.
Sofia joined by video because Emma had a science fair.
Eleanor sat in the front row beside my mother.
The two of them whispered through half the meeting like schoolgirls.
When I approached afterward, I heard my mother say, “I always knew Clara would—”
“Stop,” I said.
Both looked innocent.
“We said nothing,” Eleanor replied.
“You were about to.”
“That is speculation.”
Damian walked up behind me.
“Don’t bother. They’ve formed an alliance.”
“Terrifying.”
“Agreed.”
My mother looked between us.
“You two look happy.”
May you like
“Mom.”
“What? You do.”
