Chapter 14
Six months later, he asked me to coffee.
“Public place,” I said.
“Yes.”
“One hour.”
“Yes.”
“No vehicle waiting to relocate me.”
His mouth almost moved.
“Specific.”
“I have history.”
We met in a café near St. Agnes Hospital, where I had begun my pediatric rotation.
He arrived early.
Sat with his back exposed to the room rather than against the wall.
I noticed.
“You dislike that seat,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Then why choose it?”
“My therapist said I should stop arranging every room around the possibility of violence.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“It is expensive discomfort.”
We discussed Emma.
My work.
The worker-family housing program.
Lorenzo asked whether I wanted to see the estate after renovations.
“No.”
He nodded.
Three months later, I went.
Not because he asked again.
Because Emma wanted to visit the garden.
The white stone mansion still stood above the water. The guards at the gate worked for the independent trust, not Lorenzo. My name was on the visitor list because I had approved it.
The formal parlor had become a family support center.
Bookshelves.
Art tables.
Soft rugs.
A medical consultation room.
Legal-aid offices.
Temporary bedrooms upstairs.
A brass plaque near the entrance read:
THE DANIEL RIVERA FAMILY HOUSE.
I stopped.
Lorenzo stood several feet behind me.
“You used his name.”
“The board proposed it.”
May you like
“Did you?”
“I recused myself from the vote.”
