Chapter 4: The truth about our fathers (1/2)

My father agreed to meet me.

Patrick Quinn lived in Vermont now.

He taught woodworking classes.

Had gray in his beard.

Kept chickens.

It was impossible to reconcile the peaceful man who opened the cottage door with the father who had vanished from my life eighteen years earlier.

I did not go alone.

But Luca did not come inside.

That had been my decision.

He waited in the car.

No argument.

My father looked at me.

“Nora.”

“Hello.”

His eyes dropped toward my stomach.

Not showing yet.

Maybe he'd heard.

Maybe guilt made people imagine evidence.

“Come in.”

I remained outside.

“Did Vittorio Ferraro pay you to leave?”

His face collapsed.

That answered everything.

“How much?”

“Nora.”

“How much?”

“Two million dollars.”

I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

“You sold me for two million dollars.”

“No.”

“Then correct the sentence.”

He stepped outside.

“I was in debt.”

“So?”

“Dangerous debt.”

“With whom?”

“People connected to Ferraro shipping.”

Of course.

He told me the rest.

Vittorio discovered that Patrick had misused money from my grandfather's company.

He offered a choice.

Prosecution.

Or disappear, surrender claims to the family trust, and accept enough money to start somewhere else.

“What about me?”

My father cried.

That surprised me.

“I thought your grandfather would give you a better life.”

“You could have called.”

“I was ashamed.”

“For eighteen years?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

The answer was pathetic.

Also possibly true.

Then I asked the question that mattered.

“Why did Grandpa remove the pregnancy clause?”

Patrick looked surprised.

“You know about that?”

“Yes.”

He sat on the porch step.

“Your grandfather hated Vittorio by then.”

“Why?”

“Because Vittorio suggested the marriage idea.”

My stomach tightened.

“When I was three?”

“Not an immediate marriage.”

He rubbed his face.

“A future consolidation.

Their grandchildren or children.

Business families used to make those arrangements all the time.”

“Human beings aren't mergers.”

“I know.”

“Apparently none of you did.”

He flinched.

Good.

“Thomas eventually realized Vittorio wanted control, not partnership.

He removed every automatic transfer he could.”

“But my uncle and Antonio revived them.”

“Yes.”

I looked toward the car.

Luca sat inside.

Waiting.

The son of the man who had helped destroy my family.

Not Luca's fault.

But history had placed us inside a room neither of us understood.

“Did Grandpa know I might marry Luca?”

“No.”

“Would he have objected?”

Patrick almost smiled.

“He would have objected to the weather if Vittorio supported sunshine.”

That sounded like my grandfather.

I nearly cried.

Before leaving, my father said:

“Nora.”

I stopped.

“I don't expect forgiveness.”

Good.

“But Theo…”

I turned.

His voice broke.

“Thank you for loving him.”

That landed somewhere painful.

“I didn't do it for you.”

“I know.”

Then he said something I did not expect.

“Luca came to see me.”

My entire body stiffened.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

I turned toward the car.

Luca looked out the window, unreadable.

“Why?”

“He wanted to know whether anything else from his father could hurt you.”

Anger flashed.

“He had no right.”

“I told him that.”

“What did he say?”

Patrick looked almost amused.

“He agreed.”

Of course he did.

“What else?”

“He asked me what you were like as a child.”

My anger vanished.

“What?”

“He didn't ask about business.”

Patrick looked toward the car.

“He asked what made you happy.”

I stared.

“What did you tell him?”

“That you liked libraries.”

I closed my eyes.

“And thunderstorms.”

My throat tightened.

“And yellow birthday cake.”

I laughed softly.

“I hate yellow cake.”

“You did when you were six.”

“People evolve.”

My father smiled sadly.

“Yes.”

I turned toward the car again.

Luca looked away quickly.

He'd been watching.

I entered the back seat.

“Drive.”

The car moved.

Luca said nothing.

Ten blocks passed.

Then:

“You met my father.”

“Yes.”

“Without telling me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was trying to learn whether there were more legal surprises.”

“That wasn't your decision.”

“No.”

He looked at me.

“I know.”

The immediate agreement stole momentum from my anger.

“That is irritating.”

“I've been practicing.”

“Did you ask what made me happy?”

His eyes moved toward the window.

“Maybe.”

“Libraries?”

“Your father is not an excellent source.”

“No.”

“Thunderstorms?”

“That one seems accurate.”

“Yes.”

“Yellow cake?”

“Defamation.”

A laugh escaped him.

Then me.

The tension broke.

For a moment.

Then I asked:

“What makes you happy?”

He looked surprised.

I realized I did not know.

Eleven months married.

I knew his coffee.

His preferred shirts.

His schedule.

How he folded newspapers.

I did not know what made him happy.

“I don't know.”

“That isn't allowed.”

He thought.

“Boats.”

“You own several.”

“No.

Small boats.”

I frowned.

“Sailboats?”

“Yes.”

“You sail?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why?”

“My father thought it was useless.”

I stared.

“You're thirty-eight.”

“I've noticed.”

“You can sail.”

“I know.”

“Then why don't you?”

He had no answer.

It was remarkable how much of both our lives had been shaped by dead men.

“Anything else?”

He thought.

“Cooking.”

I laughed.

“You don't cook.”

“I used to.”

“What?”

“Pasta.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You have a private chef.”

“I didn't always.”

I smiled.

“Make me dinner.”

Luca froze.

“What?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I want to know whether you're lying.”

His expression shifted.

“About pasta?”

“Yes.”

“This is a high-risk marriage.”

“Arrangement.”

His smile faded slightly.

“Right.”

I regretted it immediately.

But I did not correct myself.

The following evening, Luca cooked.

Badly.

Not disastrously.

But badly enough that the kitchen staff looked physically uncomfortable.

I sat at the island.

“You're overcooking it.”

“Stop.”

“The water isn't boiling.”

“Stop.”

“You put oil in the pasta water.”

“That is traditional.”

“It is criminal.”

He pointed a wooden spoon at me.

“My house.”

“Our house.”

He froze.

So did I.

The words had escaped.

Our house.

Eleven months and I had almost never called it that.

I looked away.

Luca returned to stirring.

Neither of us mentioned it.

Dinner was edible.

Barely.

I ate two bowls.

He knew I was being kind.

Afterward we sat at the kitchen table long after staff left.

I told him about university.

He told me about boarding school.

I described Theo before chemotherapy.

He described the first time he saw me at the museum auction.

Something changed.

Not dramatically.

No kiss.

No declaration.

Just two people finally doing the thing our marriage had never required.

Getting acquainted.

At eleven, Luca looked at his watch.

My chest tightened automatically.

“Work?”

He removed the watch.

Placed it face down.

“No.”

“You have calls.”

“Yes.”

“Meetings?”

“Tomorrow.”

I stared.

“Then what?”

“Nothing.”

“You're staying?”

He looked confused.

“Do you want me to?”

I hated that the question mattered so much.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“Then I'm staying.”

We talked until one in the morning.

At 1:07, my phone rang.

St.

Bridget's.

I answered immediately.

Emily was crying.

My blood turned cold.

“What happened?”

“Nora…”

Luca stood.

“Theo's labs came back.”

I gripped the phone.

“And?”

Emily began laughing through tears.

“It's working.”

I closed my eyes.

The transplant cells had begun engrafting.

Theo's new blood counts were rising.

Luca's cells.

Inside my brother.

A second chance growing invisibly.

I cried.

Luca held me.

I let him.

For the first time since our wedding, I rested my head against my husband's chest without wondering whether I was breaking some unspoken rule.

His heart beat beneath my ear.

Steady.

Then Emily said something else.

“Nora, there's something Theo wants.”

“What?”

“He wants Luca here tomorrow.”

I smiled through tears.

“For what?”

Emily laughed.

“He says it's important.”