Chapter 10 - The Calm on the Water
Twelve months later, the early summer sun off Lake Geneva was warm enough to turn the surface of the water into a sheet of hammered silver.
On the long limestone terrace of the Moretti compound, three large wooden tables had been set end-to-end under the shade of the old burr oaks. There were no crystal flutes from Baccarat. There were no crimson Balenciaga gowns or city aldermen checking their watches near the service doors.
There were thick ceramic mugs of black coffee, platters of fried smelts with lemon wedges, and a massive bowl of potato salad that Thomas Carter had spent two hours making according to his late wife’s recipe, using too much mustard and not enough celery.
Isabella Moretti sat at the head of the center table.
She was wearing a cardigan of pale cornflower blue—new wool, but soft, the buttons large enough for her crooked fingers to manage without help. Her speech was still slow, but the droop on the left side of her face had faded until it looked like nothing more than an old smile that had settled into the bone.
Beside her sat Lily, wearing a clean white lab coat with the embroidered emblem of the University of Chicago Medical Center, where she had started her residency in pediatric critical care three weeks earlier. She was leaning over Isabella’s shoulder, showing the old woman a series of digital photographs on her tablet—pictures of the first graduating class from the 33rd Street Apprenticeship Center, thirty young men and women in blue work shirts holding their newly minted welding certifications.
"Look at that boy," Isabella muttered, pointing a crooked finger at the screen. "That’s the grandson of old man Kowalski from the boiler shop. He has his grandfather’s nose. A thief’s nose, but he can lay a bead."
"He got hired by the rail authority yesterday, Mrs. Moretti," Lily said with a grin, nudging the old woman’s shoulder. "Thirty-two dollars an hour to start."
"Too much," Isabella grunted, though her eyes were bright behind her thick lenses. "Give a boy thirty-two dollars an hour and he buys an automobile that makes too much noise on Sunday morning."
Down at the far end of the terrace, near the gravel path that led to the private slip, Emma stood with her arms resting on the limestone balustrade, looking out over the water.
She wore a simple white linen dress with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, her feet bare against the warm gray stone. Her skin had taken on the golden tan of a summer spent outdoors, and her hands—though still strong, still marked by the tiny white line on her right thumb—were relaxed, resting loosely against the carved rock.
A step sounded on the gravel behind her.
Vincent walked up to the balustrade, setting two glasses of cold iced tea down on the flat stone between them. He was wearing an open-collared white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the old three-inch scar on his forearm, his hair slightly rumpled by the breeze coming off the bay.
"The Langford trust filed their final liquidation statement in Wilmington this morning," Vincent said, leaning his hip against the stone beside her.
Emma took a sip of the tea. It had honey and lemon with the peel left on, just as she liked it.
"Did they?" she asked, her voice calm, without a trace of the old bitterness.
"Richard is living in a two-bedroom condominium in Naples," Vincent said. "He spends his mornings playing shuffleboard with retired accountants from Cleveland. Victoria moved to London. Mark says she’s working for an interior design firm in Chelsea, carrying carpet samples for three hundred pounds a week."
Emma looked out at the small white sailboats drifting across the center of the lake, their sails leaning gently with the western breeze.
"Do you ever think about that night at the Drake?" she asked softly.
"Every day," Vincent said.
Emma turned her head to look at him. "Why? You won everything you wanted. You got the slip. You got the riverfront. You cleared your mother’s name."
Vincent looked down at her face, his gray eyes catching the light from the water, no longer cold, no longer like the slate floor of an empty bank vault.
"I didn't win anything that night, Emma," he said, his hand moving across the warm limestone until his fingers touched hers—firm, steady, and unhurried. "I was just a man with a lot of paper who was waiting for someone to remind him what an honest woman looked like."
From the terrace behind them came the sound of Thomas Carter’s gravelly voice, arguing with Isabella over whether the Chicago White Sox of nineteen-fifty-nine were better than the modern roster, followed by Lily’s clear, ringing laugh that carried out over the water like the call of a gull.
Vincent picked up his glass, touching the rim against hers with a small, clear clink that sounded nothing like the Drake ballroom.
It sounded like home.
"To the girl who didn't let go," Vincent said.
May you like
Emma smiled, her fingers tightening around his hand, the sun warm on her shoulders as the lake breeze moved through the trees.
"To the man who remembered her name," she answered.
