Chapter 8
Dante came in two weeks later.
He took Booth Seven.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“I like the table.”
“You have terrible instincts.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He was alone.
I handed him a menu.
“You know we have lemon cake?”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re mocking me.”
“Professionally.”
He opened the menu.
“How is your brother?”
“Jamie?”
“You have another?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
“He’s good.”
Jamie had secured an internship with an architecture firm.
Not through Dante.
I had made that extremely clear.
Dante respected it.
My mother liked him less from newspaper photographs and more after he sent her handwritten thanks for raising a daughter brave enough to help a stranger.
She framed the note.
I told her that was embarrassing.
She ignored me.
Dante closed the menu.
“I went to Marco’s grave today.”
“The empty one?”
“Yes.”
“What was that like?”
“Strange.”
He considered.
“I spent eleven years going there to talk to someone who wasn’t listening.”
“People do that at most graves.”
“Fair.”
He smiled.
“I had his marker changed.”
“To what?”
“Nothing.”
I waited.
“We removed it.”
That surprised me.
“Where is he buried?”
“Bellweather.”
“Beside Eleanor?”
“No. She’s still very much alive.”
“Right.”
He shook his head.
“There’s a cemetery behind the academy. Simple stone. His name says Matthew Marco Moran.”
“That feels right.”
“I thought so.”
The waitress station bell rang behind me.
“I have to work.”
“Cara.”
I turned.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
He looked around Bellini’s.
“For hearing something everyone else was too important to notice.”
I smiled.
May you like
“You’re getting sentimental.”
“Don’t tell Luca.”
