Chapter 5 - THE LITTLE BOY WHO KEPT WAITING
"I would never be angry with you for that."
Luca moved his chair directly in front of Oliver.
His son stared at the school application.
"But Vanessa said you would."
"I know."
"She said you already had too many problems."
Luca's face changed.
"Oliver, you're not one of my problems."
The boy's chin trembled.
"Then why are you always working?"
Nobody moved.
Even Vanessa stopped crying.
Luca swallowed.
"That's a fair question."
Oliver looked frightened.
"I'm sorry."
"No. Don't apologize."
Luca rested his elbows on his knees.
"You deserve an answer."
I watched him struggle for words.
He was a man accustomed to having answers.
But nothing in his expensive suit or powerful name could help him through this conversation.
"After your mom died," Luca said quietly, "I started working more."
Oliver nodded.
"I know."
"I told myself I was doing it so I could take care of everything."
"You already had lots of money."
Luca gave a small, sad smile.
"You're right."
Oliver looked confused.
"Then why?"
Luca took a breath.
"Because sometimes work was easier than coming home and feeling how much I missed her."
The boy's eyes filled.
"I miss her too."
"I know, buddy."
"I thought we were supposed to miss her together."
Luca covered his mouth.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he pulled Oliver into his arms.
"We were. And I haven't always done a good job."
Oliver began crying.
Luca held him close.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."
I looked away.
There was something almost unbearable about hearing a father admit that he'd been physically present in his son's life but emotionally absent when it mattered.
Vanessa sat quietly at the other end of the table.
For once, she didn't interrupt.
When Oliver had settled, Luca reached for the school application.
"You don't have to go to Ashcroft. And you don't have to write things you don't believe just to make somebody happy."
Oliver nodded.
Then whispered, "Can I tell you something?"
"Anything."
"I didn't want to stop pancakes."
Luca's expression softened.
"I know that now."
"I used to wait in the kitchen."
I felt my stomach tighten.
Oliver continued.
"Every Sunday, I'd put my plate on the counter."
Luca looked at him.
"Then why didn't you come downstairs?"
"Vanessa said you were sleeping."
Luca frowned.
"I was downstairs."
Oliver shook his head.
"She said you didn't want to see me yet."
Luca stared at him.
I remembered those mornings.
Three Sundays.
Three separate instructions.
Each time, Vanessa had asked the kitchen staff not to set Oliver's place.
Each time, she'd explained that the boy was spending the morning with Teresa.
I thought it was unusual.
But I hadn't questioned her.
"Mr. Moretti," I said carefully, "may I tell you something?"
He nodded.
"On the first Sunday Oliver missed breakfast, you asked me to make pancake batter."
His face changed.
"I remember."
"I made enough for two."
Oliver looked up.
Luca whispered, "I know."
"Then Mrs. Bellini told me Oliver had already eaten at his grandmother's."
Teresa shook her head.
"He hadn't eaten with me that morning."
Vanessa went still.
I continued.
"The following Sunday, I made pancakes again. Mrs. Bellini said Oliver wasn't feeling well."
Oliver looked confused.
"I wasn't sick."
Luca turned toward Vanessa.
"What about the third Sunday?"
She lowered her eyes.
I answered.
"She told me Oliver had asked not to be disturbed."
Oliver shook his head.
"I was sitting upstairs with my plate."
The silence felt enormous.
For three Sundays, a father had been downstairs waiting for his son.
And a little boy had been upstairs waiting for his father.
Neither knew the other was waiting.
I could barely breathe.
Luca stood.
He walked to the end of the table and rested both hands against the polished wood.
For several seconds, his shoulders moved with his breathing.
Then he turned.
"Vanessa, why?"
She looked at him.
"I thought they needed a clean break."
"A break from what?"
"From pretending nothing had changed."
Luca stared at her.
"His mother died four years ago. We haven't been pretending anything."
Vanessa wiped her cheeks.
"Every Sunday, you sit at that table and talk about Elena. You make the same pancakes. You use the same plate."
"Because Oliver loves it."
"And where am I supposed to fit?"
The question came out sharper than she'd intended.
She looked embarrassed.
But she continued.
"You proposed to me. You asked me to build a life with you. Yet every time I walk into that kitchen, I feel like I'm interrupting something I can never be part of."
Teresa spoke gently.
"Vanessa, Elena being remembered doesn't prevent you from being loved."
Vanessa gave a bitter laugh.
"That's easy for you to say."
"No," Teresa replied. "It's something I learned after losing my own husband."
Vanessa looked away.
Luca shook his head.
"You could've told me how you felt."
"I tried."
"You told me the pancakes were childish."
"Because I didn't know how else to explain it."
Luca stared at her.
"So you made Oliver believe I didn't want him."
She started crying.
"I thought if he spent some time away, we'd all adjust."
"You didn't give us a chance to adjust together."
Oliver looked between them.
"Was it because of Mom's plate?"
Vanessa closed her eyes.
Luca immediately answered.
"No, buddy."
"But she said it made everybody sad."
I looked at the little blue plate.
Its chipped edge was turned toward me.
The mark had been there since before I began working at the mansion.
Mrs. Carter once told me Elena had dropped it while trying to carry Oliver and a grocery bag at the same time.
Oliver loved the chip.
He said it made the plate look like it had a missing tooth.
"Oliver," I said softly, "your plate isn't the problem."
He looked at me.
"Then why did she take it?"
My chest tightened.
"What do you mean?"
He pointed at Vanessa.
"She put it in a box."
Luca frowned.
"When?"
"Before the first Sunday."
Vanessa looked toward the doors.
Oliver continued.
"I found it because I knew where she put the boxes."
"Which boxes?" Luca asked.
"The ones with Mom's stuff."
Teresa covered her mouth.
Oliver looked at his father.
"She said we didn't need any of it after the wedding."
Luca's face went pale.
He turned toward me.
"Claire, where are Elena's belongings?"
I swallowed.
"Mrs. Bellini asked us to inventory them."
"Are they still here?"
"Most of them, sir."
"Most?"
I looked down.
"Some were scheduled to be removed after the engagement."
Vanessa stood.
"Luca, those were household storage arrangements."
He held out his hand.
"Claire, do you have the inventory?"
I nodded.
I went to the service station and retrieved the folded household list I'd been asked to organize earlier that afternoon.
Luca read it.
His expression changed.
At the bottom was a category written in Vanessa's handwriting.
ELENA MORETTI — PERSONAL ITEMS. REMOVE BEFORE WEDDING.
Beneath it was a final instruction.
DO NOT RETAIN ITEMS ASSOCIATED WITH SUNDAY BREAKFAST.
Luca looked toward his fiancée.
May you like
And Oliver whispered the question none of us knew how to answer.
"Dad, was she trying to make everybody forget Mom?"
