Chapter 8
Dante met his grandson on a Sunday.
Rebecca chose her house.
No restaurants.
No parks.
No Moretti properties.
Her home.
Her rules.
Dante agreed to every condition before she finished listing them.
Scarlett found this remarkable.
Marcus found it historic.
“He once negotiated forty-seven contract clauses for a parking garage,” Marcus said while Dante stood in the kitchen pretending not to listen.
Scarlett adjusted Charlotte’s sweater.
“How long did that take?”
“Six weeks.”
Dante turned.
“The liability language was inadequate.”
Marcus looked at Scarlett.
“See?”
Charlotte held up a stuffed rabbit.
“Mr. Bunny comes.”
Dante immediately said, “Yes.”
Scarlett laughed.
“You negotiate harder with adults than with a four-year-old.”
“She has compelling arguments.”
“She said two words.”
“She was clear.”
They were bringing Charlotte.
Rebecca had suggested it.
Samuel knew he had an aunt.
Technically.
The word made Scarlett smile every time.
Charlotte was four.
Samuel was three.
Aunt Charlotte.
Dante had stared at that concept for almost thirty seconds the first time Scarlett said it.
Then he had walked away without comment.
She found him ten minutes later secretly ordering two identical children’s art tables.
She canceled one.
He ordered it again.
Marriage remained a process.
They arrived at Rebecca’s house at two.
Dante stood on the sidewalk longer than necessary.
Scarlett waited beside him.
Charlotte held his hand.
“You ready?” Scarlett asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
He glanced at her.
“Why is that good?”
“Because if you were confident right now, I’d be worried.”
Charlotte pulled his hand.
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“Door.”
Dante looked toward the house.
“Correct.”
“Go.”
Scarlett covered a smile.
Apparently the only person capable of giving Dante Moretti direct orders without negotiation weighed thirty-eight pounds.
They walked up the path.
Rebecca opened the door before they knocked.
She looked at Dante.
Then Charlotte.
Then Scarlett.
“He’s nervous,” she said.
“So is Dante,” Scarlett replied.
Rebecca nodded.
“That seems fair.”
They entered.
Samuel was in the living room.
Dante saw him.
And stopped.
Scarlett had prepared herself.
Rebecca had warned them.
Samuel looked like Michael.
But preparation meant nothing.
The resemblance was devastating.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
The same slightly crooked left eyebrow.
The same serious expression Michael had worn in childhood photographs.
Samuel sat on the carpet beside a wooden train set.
He looked up.
Dante’s hand tightened around Charlotte’s.
Samuel studied him.
Nobody spoke.
Then Samuel asked, “Are you Grandpa Dante?”
Dante’s face changed.
Scarlett felt tears burn her eyes.
“Yes.”
Samuel considered.
“Mommy said you’re tall.”
Dante glanced at Rebecca.
Rebecca shrugged.
“It came up.”
Samuel stood.
He walked toward Dante.
Dante remained absolutely still.
The boy stopped three feet away.
“You’re Daddy Michael’s daddy.”
“Yes.”
“Daddy Michael died.”
Dante swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Before me.”
“Yes.”
Samuel looked down.
“Mommy died too.”
Dante’s voice became rough.
“I know.”
Samuel looked up again.
“Aunt Becca says people can be gone and still be family.”
Dante’s eyes filled.
“She is right.”
Samuel nodded.
Then noticed Charlotte.
“Who’s that?”
Charlotte answered herself.
“I’m Charlotte.”
Samuel frowned.
“You’re little.”
“So are you.”
Scarlett bit the inside of her cheek.
Rebecca looked toward the ceiling.
Dante almost smiled.
Samuel pointed toward the train.
“Want to play?”
Charlotte dropped Mr. Bunny and ran toward the carpet.
Within thirty seconds, the two children had forgotten the adults existed.
Dante stood watching them.
Rebecca came beside him.
“He likes trains.”
“Michael did too.”
“I know.”
Dante looked at her.
“Emily told me.”
For the next hour, Dante did almost nothing.
That was perhaps the greatest evidence of how much he had changed.
He did not interrogate Rebecca about Samuel’s health.
Did not ask about schools.
Did not ask about financial arrangements.
Did not attempt to solve anything.
He sat on the floor.
Samuel showed him trains.
Red one.
Blue one.
Green one.
Then Samuel disappeared into his bedroom and returned carrying a photograph.
Michael.
Dante took it carefully.
“That’s my daddy.”
“Yes.”
“You know him?”
Dante closed his eyes briefly.
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
Dante looked at Samuel.
“A lot.”
Samuel climbed onto the couch beside him.
“What did he like?”
The question destroyed whatever remained of Dante’s defenses.
Scarlett watched him struggle.
Then choose honesty.
“Books.”
Samuel nodded.
“I like books.”
“He liked trains.”
Samuel’s eyes widened.
“I like trains!”
Dante smiled.
“He hated broccoli.”
“I hate broccoli!”
Rebecca laughed.
“Samuel.”
“It’s true.”
Dante continued.
“He loved terrible music.”
“What music?”
“Your aunt will not permit me to answer that.”
Rebecca folded her arms.
“Because Emily liked the same bands.”
Dante looked at Samuel.
“Then apparently your father had excellent taste.”
Samuel leaned closer.
“Tell more.”
And Dante did.
For almost two hours.
He told Samuel about Michael at five.
Michael at ten.
Michael getting suspended from school for putting three frogs inside a teacher’s desk.
Michael deciding at fourteen that Dante’s haircut made him look like “a depressed accountant.”
Scarlett had never heard that story.
Neither had Marcus.
Rebecca laughed until she cried.
Samuel listened with the intense seriousness children sometimes gave stories that adults assumed they would not understand.
At one point, he climbed into Dante’s lap without asking.
Dante stopped mid-sentence.
Scarlett saw his hands hover.
He looked at her.
She nodded.
Slowly, he placed one arm around Samuel.
The boy leaned against his chest.
Dante stared over Samuel’s head.
Tears filled his eyes.
He did not hide them.
Later, while the children ate grilled cheese in the kitchen, Rebecca took Dante outside.
Scarlett stayed behind.
Some conversations did not need witnesses.
Rebecca handed him a small digital recorder.
“Emily made these during treatment.”
Dante looked at it.
“For Samuel?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“One is for you.”
Dante stared.
“She knew she was dying when she recorded it.”
He looked toward the kitchen window.
Samuel was laughing at something Charlotte had done.
“Why me?”
Rebecca’s eyes filled.
“You’ll have to listen.”
Dante slipped the recorder into his pocket.
Rebecca continued.
“There’s something else.”
He waited.
“Emily didn’t leave Samuel much money.”
“That does not matter.”
“I know it doesn’t matter to you.”
Dante said nothing.
“But it matters to me that you understand something.”
“What?”
“I don’t want your money.”
His expression remained calm.
“Okay.”
She seemed surprised again.
“I expected an argument.”
“I am learning.”
“From Scarlett?”
“Relentlessly.”
Rebecca smiled.
Then became serious.
“You can be his grandfather. If you want.”
Dante’s breath stopped.
“But you do not become his owner.”
He flinched slightly.
“I understand.”
“I make medical decisions. School decisions. Home decisions.”
“Yes.”
“If something happens to me—”
Dante’s face changed.
Rebecca held up a hand.
“Nothing is happening to me. I’m thirty-five and healthy. But I have legal guardianship documents.”
“Who?”
“My friend David and his wife.”
Dante’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Rebecca noticed.
“Say it.”
“I have no right.”
“Good.”
He exhaled.
“I would like to be considered.”
“If circumstances ever change?”
“Yes.”
“I will consider it.”
That was all.
Dante accepted it.
Rebecca studied him.
“Emily would not recognize you.”
His expression became sad.
“She never knew me well.”
“She knew enough to be afraid.”
“Yes.”
Rebecca looked through the window.
“She also knew Michael loved you.”
Dante lowered his eyes.
“I wish I had known him better.”
“You were his father.”
“That does not mean I knew him.”
Rebecca looked at him.
“No. I suppose it doesn’t.”
That evening, after Charlotte fell asleep in the car, Scarlett drove.
Dante sat in the passenger seat holding the recorder.
He had not listened to it.
“Want me there?” Scarlett asked.
“Yes.”
They waited until they reached home.
Dante carried Charlotte upstairs.
Scarlett changed her into pajamas without waking her.
Then they went into the study.
Dante placed the recorder on the desk.
He stared at it.
Scarlett sat beside him.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
He pressed play.
Static.
Then Emily’s voice.
Older than Scarlett expected.
Tired.
“Dante.”
He froze.
“If you’re hearing this, Rebecca finally decided you’re less terrifying than she remembers.”
Scarlett almost smiled.
Dante did not.
Emily continued.
“I don’t know how to say this without admitting I was wrong.”
A pause.
“I kept Samuel from you because I was angry. Not because Michael asked me to.”
Dante’s eyes closed.
“He didn’t.”
Another pause.
“Michael wanted you to know.”
Dante gripped Scarlett’s hand.
“He wanted Samuel to know you.”
Dante bowed his head.
Emily coughed on the recording.
“I told myself I was protecting my baby. Maybe part of me was. But another part was punishing you for surviving when Michael didn’t.”
Scarlett watched tears fall silently down Dante’s face.
“That wasn’t fair.”
Emily breathed slowly.
“Michael loved you. He was angry with you. Frustrated with you. Sometimes afraid of becoming you.”
Dante flinched.
“But he loved you.”
The recording paused again.
“And he believed you could change.”
Dante looked up.
Emily’s voice weakened.
“He told me once that you were the most stubborn man alive, which meant if you ever decided to become better, nobody could stop you.”
A broken laugh escaped Dante.
Scarlett pressed her forehead against his shoulder.
“If Samuel is part of your life, please don’t make him Michael.”
Dante became completely still.
“He looks like him. I know.”
Emily’s voice cracked.
“But he isn’t him.”
Scarlett looked at Dante.
The same warning she had given him.
“Samuel deserves to become himself.”
A long silence.
Then:
“And Dante?”
He leaned toward the recorder.
“Michael was happy.”
Dante stopped breathing.
“The last weeks before the accident, he was terrified about becoming a father. But he was happy.”
Emily began crying softly.
“He loved that baby before he ever held him.”
The recording ended.
Dante sat in silence.
Minutes passed.
Finally Scarlett asked, “What are you thinking?”
He looked at the recorder.
“That I spent years remembering Michael’s last months as if he were already moving toward death.”
Scarlett listened.
“But he wasn’t.”
“No.”
“He was moving toward life.”
Dante nodded.
“He was going to be a father.”
“Yes.”
“He was planning Vermont.”
“Yes.”
“He was happy.”
Scarlett squeezed his hand.
“Yes.”
Dante stood.
He walked toward the photograph of Michael on the shelf.
For years, the photograph had represented an ending.
Now something had changed.
Not the photograph.
The story around it.
Michael had not spent his final months as a doomed son.
He had been a young man planning a future.
Dante touched the frame.
“I think I need to let him leave.”
Scarlett stood behind him.
“What do you mean?”
“In my mind.”
He swallowed.
“I kept him twenty-two forever. Kept him here. Kept him as my son.”
He looked at Scarlett.
“But he had already become more than that.”
A father.
A partner.
A man planning to move away.
A man becoming separate from Dante.
Scarlett understood.
“You don’t have to let him go.”
Dante looked at her.
“You just have to let him grow.”
That night Dante dreamed about Michael.
Not the accident.
Not the hospital.
Not the funeral.
For the first time in years, he dreamed of Michael laughing.
And when Dante woke before sunrise, he did not feel abandoned.
He felt grateful.
Then his phone rang.
Marcus.
Dante answered.
“Tell me.”
Marcus’s voice was serious.
“We found Ricci.”
Dante sat upright.
Scarlett opened her eyes.
“Where?”
“Northwestern Memorial.”
Dante frowned.
“Why?”
“He had a heart attack.”
May you like
A pause.
“He’s asking for you.”
