Chapter 4
Vincent did not follow Diane into the parking lot. He sat in the booth for a long time, watching the door, while Luca colored the lighthouse and Emily cleared tables and the diner hummed around them.
That night, Diane sent the letter by courier.
It arrived at eight o’clock in a thick white envelope with no return address. Vincent opened it in the study with a letter knife and unfolded two pages of lined paper covered in his wife’s handwriting.
Catherine had always written in blue ink. She had pressed too hard. The letters were dark and uneven, the loops too large, as if she had been writing in a hurry or in the dark.
Vincent,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry. I know you’ll hate me for saying it that way, but you always did prefer things straight.
You’re going to bury yourself in work. I know you. You’ll tell yourself it’s for Luca—that you’re protecting him, providing for him—but we both know the truth.
Work is the one room in your life where you know what to do with your hands.
So I’m asking you for something, and I’m asking you in writing because you can’t argue with paper.
Don’t let Luca grow up in that house alone. Don’t let him become a monument to me.
Don’t let him learn that silence is safer than speaking, because he will learn it from you if you let him.
If you can’t come back to him—if you can’t put down the phone and the deals and the men who call you boss and just be his father—then let my mother take him.
Not because you’re a bad man. Because he needs a life, not a shrine.
And Vincent—make him laugh. Whatever it takes. Make him laugh.
Men don’t cry, your father used to say. Look where that got us.
I love you. I loved you even when you were impossible. Do better than impossible.
Catherine
Vincent read it twice. Then he folded it and put it back in the envelope and sat in the dark for a long time.
The next morning, he did not go to the office. He did not call Howard. He drove to Rosy’s.
The visits became a ritual. Every Tuesday and Friday at eleven-fifteen, the Escalade pulled into the lot.
Tony scanned the street. Vincent guided Luca through the door.
Emily had their booth ready, and a fresh pot of coffee, and something small—a coloring book, a set of stickers, a paper placemat with a maze.
Luca began to change in increments so small that Vincent almost missed them.
He made eye contact with Emily for a full second. He pointed at the menu when he wanted something.
He nodded when she asked if he wanted whipped cream.
One Friday, a construction worker knocked into Emily as she carried a tray.
A full glass of orange juice tipped and splashed down the front of her white shirt. She gasped, then laughed—a bright, self-deprecating laugh—and said, “Well, that’s one way to start the day.”
Luca reached across the table and picked up his napkin. He held it out to her.
Emily took it. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Vincent watched his son’s face. Luca was not smiling. But he was looking at Emily, and he was not looking away.
That afternoon, after the diner had closed, Vincent found Emily in the back hallway, tying up a bag of trash.
“I want to offer you a job,” he said.
Emily straightened. “What?”
“A position. With my family. Five days a week. You would work with Luca—help him, teach him, be with him. You’d have your own room in the house if you wanted it. A car. A salary of two hundred thousand dollars a year.”
Emily stared at him.
“You could quit the diner,” Vincent said. “You could quit the bookstore. You could pay off your loans. Your grandmother’s care—I know it’s expensive. I can make all of that go away.”
“You’ve been looking into me.”
“I asked questions.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Emily—”
“No.” She said it quietly, but it stopped him. “You think you can buy this?”
“I’m trying to help my son.”
“Then help him.” She threw the trash bag into the bin. “You want to hire me to be his mother? His teacher? His friend? You want to put me in that house and pay me to do the thing you won’t do yourself.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” She turned to face him. “You sat in that booth for three weeks and watched me talk to him. You saw what worked. And your first instinct was to write a check.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand the position I’m in.”
“I understand plenty.” Emily’s voice was hard now. “You think a diner booth can raise your son?”
“No,” Vincent said. “I think you can. You just won’t.”
The words hung between them.
“You don’t know anything about my son,” Vincent said.
Emily looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, “I know he smiled at me before he smiled at you.”
Vincent went white.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said, and she sounded like she meant it. “That was cruel. But so was offering me money to love a child you’re afraid to love yourself.”
She walked out.
Vincent stood alone in the hallway for a long time. Then he went home.
That night, Maria found him in the kitchen. He was holding the coloring book. It had been in the trash can in Luca’s room, the lighthouse page torn out and crumpled beside it.
“He did it after you left,” Maria said quietly. “He was crying. He doesn’t make noise when he cries.”
Vincent looked at the torn page. The lighthouse was still there, the blue ocean, the careful lines. At the bottom, in green crayon, Luca had drawn a small figure with a ponytail.
May you like
“Maria,” Vincent said. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Romano.” Her voice was gentle. “But I know what you’ve been doing isn’t working.”
