Chapter 4 - “I recognized you the day you walked into my office for your interview.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
I sat on my sofa with my father’s photograph glowing on my phone screen, staring at the serious little boy beside my eight-year-old self.
The city hummed beyond my apartment windows.
Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor closed a door.
Ordinary sounds.
Ordinary life.
Yet something about the past had shifted.
“Luca,” I said at last, “why didn’t you tell me?”
He exhaled quietly.
“I considered it.”
“When?”
“The day of your interview.
Several times afterward.”
“And you never thought to mention that we knew each other as children?”
“I wasn’t sure you remembered.”
“I clearly didn’t.”
“I know.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Then why not say something?”
He was silent for a moment.
“Because I didn’t want you to feel that our history had anything to do with your getting the job.”
I frowned.
“Did it?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
“You were the strongest candidate.
You had the experience, the references, and the ability to remain calm when I accidentally gave you an impossible scheduling exercise.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“You gave me three overlapping meetings and asked me to solve it in ten minutes.”
“And you told me that the problem wasn’t the calendar.
It was my refusal to delegate.”
“You looked offended.”
“I was impressed.”
I shook my head.
“Luca.”
“I know.
I should have told you eventually.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You should have.”
A quiet pause followed.
Then I asked the question that had been growing in my mind.
“What do you remember?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then his voice softened.
“I remember a little girl who thought every book had a personality.”
I stared at the photograph.
“What?”
“You told me adventure books were brave, history books were patient, and dictionaries were very serious because they had to explain everything.”
I laughed.
“That sounds like something I would have said.”
“You also told me I was reading the wrong book.”
“What were you reading?”
“An economics textbook.”
“At twelve?”
“My father thought it was important.”
“And what did I recommend?”
“
The Secret Garden.
”
I closed my eyes.
The title stirred something.
A green door.
A wooden chair.
A boy with a book balanced on his knees.
“You told me,” Luca continued, “that people needed gardens even when they lived in cities.”
My breath caught.
I could almost hear my younger self saying it.
“And you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like it?”
“Very much.”
I smiled through the strange tenderness rising in my chest.
“I wish I remembered.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But you do.”
“Yes.”
I looked down at the photograph.
“Why did your family stop coming?”
“My father’s work changed.
We moved away from that neighborhood.
Then life became complicated.”
I understood the gentle way he said it.
Some histories were better shared gradually.
“Does Isabella remember the bookstore?”
“Vaguely.
She was very young.
I told her about it when the building came up for acquisition.”
“And you told her about me?”
“Yes.”
I laughed softly.
“That explains a few things.”
“Probably.”
I leaned back against the sofa.
There were still questions.
Important ones.
But the urgency I had felt when I first saw the photograph was beginning to settle into something quieter.
“You should have trusted me with the truth,” I said.
“I know.”
“Not because it would have changed anything about my job.
Because it was part of my life, too.”
“You’re right.”
I looked toward the dark window.
“And Luca?”
“Yes?”
“Please stop deciding which information I need.”
He gave a quiet, rueful laugh.
“I’m beginning to understand that’s a habit I need to change.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then he asked, “Are you still coming Sunday?”
I considered the question.
“Yes.”
His relief was audible.
“Good night, Sophia.”
“Good night, Luca.”
I ended the call.
Then I looked at the photograph one more time.
Two children sitting in a bookstore.
Neither of them knew that decades later, they would meet again in a Manhattan office.
Neither could have imagined a charity gala, a midnight-blue dress, or a conversation that would reopen a door to the past.
And neither had any idea how much they would eventually mean to each other.
On Saturday morning, I took the train to Connecticut.
My parents lived in a modest white house with blue shutters and a garden my mother insisted was too small for all the flowers she wanted to grow.
Dad was waiting at the front door when I arrived.
“Soph!”
He hugged me.
I hugged him back.
For a moment, I was eight years old again.
Inside, the house smelled of fresh bread and cinnamon.
My mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“There she is!”
She embraced me.
Then she stepped back and examined my face.
“You look tired.”
“Hello to you, too, Mom.”
“And happy.”
I blinked.
“Do I?”
She smiled.
“That’s better.”
We settled around the kitchen table.
Dad poured tea.
Mom placed a plate of warm rolls between us.
For a while, we talked about ordinary things.
The neighbor’s new puppy.
My mother’s hospital volunteer program.
The vegetables Dad had planted too late in the season.
Then I placed the photograph on the table.
“Tell me about him.”
Dad adjusted his glasses.
“Little Luca?”
I laughed.
“Little Luca?”
“That’s what your mother called him.”
Mom smiled.
“He was a serious child.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” Dad said.
He lifted the photograph.
“His father used to bring him in on Saturday mornings.
Sometimes his mother came, too.
Very nice people.”
“What did Luca do?”
“Read.”
“All morning?”
“Sometimes.”
Mom laughed.
“He was quiet until you arrived.
Then the two of you would argue about books.”
“We argued?”
“Politely,” Dad said.
“You were very certain about your opinions,” Mom added.
I smiled.
“Some things never change.”
Dad leaned back.
“One Saturday, Luca brought you a little notebook.
He said you needed somewhere to write down all your book recommendations.”
I frowned.
“A notebook?”
“Green cover.
Little gold stars.”
Something stirred in my memory.
I remembered a notebook.
I remembered writing titles carefully across the pages.
But I had forgotten where it came from.
“Do we still have it?”
Mom looked thoughtful.
“Maybe.
We kept a few boxes from the shop.”
Dad stood.
“Come on.
Let’s look.”
We spent the next hour in the spare room, opening boxes filled with photographs, old receipts, bookmarks, and handwritten notes.
There were postcards from customers.
Letters from authors.
A faded sign advertising a poetry reading.
Then I found it.
A little green notebook.
The corners were worn.
Several pages had come loose.
On the cover, in uneven handwriting, were the words:
Sophia’s Important Books.
I sat down on the floor.
Mom smiled.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
I opened it.
The first page contained a list of books I had recommended to customers.
The second had a drawing of the bookstore.
On the third page, written in a different, neater hand, was a sentence.
Thank you for recommending the garden book.
I liked it.
Underneath was a name.
Luca.
I stared at it.
Then I turned the page.
There were more notes.
Small conversations preserved in pencil.
Sophia: You should read stories about people who do brave things.
Luca: Sometimes brave people are scared.
Sophia: That still counts.
My throat tightened.
I had no memory of writing those words.
But there they were.
A little piece of myself waiting patiently inside an old box.
Mom sat beside me.
“Are you all right?”
I nodded.
“I think so.”
She looked at the notebook.
“Funny how things come back around, isn’t it?”
I smiled.
“Very funny.”
Dad appeared in the doorway.
“Did you find it?”
I held it up.
He grinned.
Then his expression turned thoughtful.
“You know, Sophia, I was glad when Luca’s company contacted me about the building.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because they asked questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“What the neighborhood needed.
What worked about the store.
What I would do differently if I could start again.”
He sat in the old armchair.
“Most developers I spoke to over the years were interested in the space.
These people were interested in the place.”
I considered that distinction.
“Did you know Luca was involved?”
“Not until recently.”
“Did it change how you felt?”
Dad shook his head.
“No.
I was already interested in the project.”
I looked down at the notebook.
“Would you really want to help with the reading program?”
He smiled.
“Of course.”
“Even though the bookstore won’t be yours anymore?”
He considered the question.
“Sweetheart, the best part of that shop was never that I owned it.”
He glanced toward Mom.
“It was that people felt welcome there.”
I thought about the little chair beside the window.
The children who came in after school.
The retired teacher who read the newspaper every afternoon.
The young mother who sometimes brought her baby just to sit somewhere warm.
Dad smiled.
“If someone can bring that back, I’d be happy to help.”
Sunday arrived with clear skies and a gentle breeze.
I spent an unreasonable amount of time choosing what to wear.
Not because I wanted to impress Luca.
At least, that was what I told myself.
I eventually chose a soft cream blouse, a dark green skirt, and comfortable flats.
Then I changed into a blue dress.
Then back into the skirt.
At three forty-five, my phone rang.
Isabella.
“Please tell me you’re still coming.”
“I am.”
“Excellent.”
“Why do you sound relieved?”
“Because my brother has checked the dining room twice.”
I laughed.
“Isabella.”
“And asked whether we have tea.”
“Please stop.”
“And informed the cook that you dislike overly sweet desserts.”
I covered my face.
“He remembers that?”
“He remembers everything about you, apparently.”
I grew quiet.
Isabella’s voice softened.
“Seriously, Sophia.
We’re happy you’re coming.”
“Thank you.”
“And don’t worry.
My mother is lovely.”
“That sounds like something people say immediately before introducing you to a terrifying woman.”
Isabella burst out laughing.
“You’ll be fine.”
The Moretti family home stood on a quiet street on the Upper East Side.
It was a beautiful limestone townhouse with tall windows and flower boxes filled with white and pale purple blooms.
But what surprised me most was how welcoming it felt.
There were books in the entrance hall.
Family photographs on the walls.
A pair of reading glasses resting beside a vase of fresh flowers.
Nothing about the house resembled the cold, polished environments I usually associated with Luca’s professional life.
The door opened before I could ring the bell.
Luca stood there.
He wore dark trousers and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
No tie.
No jacket.
I stared.
He smiled.
“Hello, Sophia.”
“Are you sure you’re Luca Moretti?”
He glanced down at his clothes.
“I believe so.”
“I’ve never seen your forearms before.”
His eyebrows rose.
I immediately wished I could retrieve the sentence.
Then he laughed.
A real laugh.
“Come inside.”
I stepped past him.
He took my coat.
Then he paused.
“You look beautiful.”
The words were quiet.
Simple.
Without an audience.
I felt my cheeks warm.
“Thank you.”
His expression softened.
“I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.”
A woman’s voice floated from the next room.
“Luca, don’t keep our guest standing in the hallway.”
He smiled.
“My mother.”
A moment later, Elena Moretti appeared.
She was elegant, with silver threaded through her dark hair and a warmth in her eyes that immediately reminded me of Isabella.
“Sophia.”
She took my hands.
“It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“You too, Mrs.
Moretti.”
“Elena, please.”
She smiled.
“I’ve been looking forward to this.”
I glanced at Luca.
He looked suspiciously interested in a painting on the wall.
Elena noticed.
And smiled even more.
“Come.
Isabella is in the kitchen pretending she knows how to cook.”
“I heard that!”
Isabella called.
Laughter filled the hallway.
And just like that, the tension I had carried all afternoon began to disappear.
Dinner was nothing like the formal occasion I had imagined.
We ate roasted chicken, vegetables, warm bread, and a pasta dish Elena proudly announced was her mother’s recipe.
Isabella told stories about her work in Boston.
Elena described Luca’s childhood attempts to organize the family’s pantry.
“He labeled everything,” she said.
“Everything?”
I asked.
“Even the fruit bowl.”
I laughed.
Luca sighed.
“I was nine.”
“You labeled the bananas,” Isabella added.
“They were frequently misplaced.”
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my water.
Luca looked at me.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Immensely.”
Elena watched us with quiet amusement.
Then the conversation moved to the bookstore.
“I remember Bennett Books,” she said warmly.
I looked up.
“You do?”
“Of course.
Your father always recommended something wonderful.”
“He still does.”
She smiled.
“I’m very glad the building is being preserved.”
“So am I.”
Luca looked at me.
“Have you spoken with Margaret?”
“Not yet.
May you like
We’re meeting Tuesday.”
“Good.”
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