Chapter 6 - THE DINNER WHERE EVERYONE HAD TO USE THEIR HANDS
Sunday dinner at Beatatrice’s townhouse had rules.
Harper discovered this immediately.
Rule one:
Phones away.
Roman complained.
Beatatrice ignored him.
Rule two:
Anyone seated within Beatatrice’s direct conversation circle had to face her when speaking.
Rule three:
Basic signs were encouraged.
Francesca had learned plenty growing up.
Marco knew maybe twenty.
Roman knew more than he admitted.
Still bad.
Harper arrived with dessert.
Catered? No, she bought from bakery.
Beatatrice signed:
You did not need to bring anything.
Harper signed:
My mother would haunt me if I came empty-handed.
Beatatrice smiled.
Roman watched.
“What?”
Harper translated.
He said:
“I like your mother already.”
“You’ve never met her.”
“Still.”
Dinner was loud.
Ironically.
Beatatrice could not hear it.
But the Moretti family apparently communicated at one volume.
Francesca interrupted.
Roman interrupted louder.
Beatatrice finally rang a small dinner bell.
Everyone stopped.
Harper laughed.
Roman glared at the bell.
“She bought that because of me.”
“Smart woman.”
Beatatrice pointed toward Roman.
Then signed:
Your turn. Tell Harper about your first ASL lesson.
Roman stared.
“No.”
Harper immediately leaned forward.
“Yes.”
Francesca grinned.
“Oh, this is good.”
Roman’s first ASL teacher had been Beatatrice herself.
He was eight when she lost most of her hearing after an infection worsened an existing condition.
Doctors encouraged speech reading and hearing aids.
Useful.
But Beatatrice wanted sign too.
Antonio Moretti hated it.
He thought signing in public made the family look weak.
Harper’s stomach turned.
Roman learned secretly with his mother.
At twelve, Antonio caught them.
Stopped the lessons.
Beatatrice continued signing with friends from the Deaf community.
Roman learned only fragments afterward.
Harper stared at him.
“You let him stop you?”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“I was twelve.”
Fair.
Then Francesca said:
“He could have learned later.”
Roman glared.
Also fair.
Beatatrice signed:
He was busy becoming his father.
Silence.
Roman looked at her.
Harper did not want to translate.
Beatatrice pointed.
Do it.
Harper did.
Roman’s expression darkened.
Then softened.
“Yeah.”
That simple.
No defense.
Beatatrice’s eyes filled.
Roman reached across.
His hands moved.
Clumsy.
Sorry.
Correct this time.
Beatatrice smiled.
Then corrected his wrist angle anyway.
Everyone laughed.
The dinner changed after that.
Not magically.
Roman still answered one business call.
Beatatrice rang the bell.
He hung up.
Francesca learned a sign for wine and abused it.
Marco signed bathroom incorrectly and accidentally asked where the moon was.
Harper nearly cried laughing.
Even Beatatrice made noise when she laughed hard enough.
That sound went straight through Harper.
Leo had laughed like that sometimes.
Breathy.
Bright.
Unselfconscious.
Instead of running from the memory, Harper let it stay.
That was new.
After dinner, Beatatrice showed her photographs.
One caught Harper.
Roman at seventeen.
Longer hair.
Angry face.
Beatatrice behind him signing bunny ears.
Harper laughed.
Roman walked in.
“Burn that.”
“No.”
Beatatrice hugged the album.
Roman looked at Harper.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Yes.”
Then he became serious.
“Walk with me?”
Harper hesitated.
Beatatrice signed:
Go. I need quiet.
Francesca protested loudly.
Beatatrice stared.
Francesca corrected:
“Right.”
Roman and Harper walked three blocks.
No bodyguards visible.
Probably nearby.
Harper had stopped pretending otherwise.
Cold air.
Streetlights.
New York noise.
Roman asked:
“What did you want?”
Harper looked at him.
“What?”
“My mother asked you.”
He remembered.
“That is none of your business.”
“Fair.”
Silence.
Then she answered anyway.
“I think I want to work with Deaf kids.”
Roman stopped.
“What?”
“I used to volunteer at Leo’s community center.”
She looked down.
“After he died, I stopped.”
“Why?”
“Everyone knew him.”
“Ah.”
He understood.
“They looked at me like I was the sister of the dead kid.”
“That sounds unbearable.”
“It was.”
She continued.
“But maybe I could go somewhere else.”
Roman nodded.
“Maybe.”
Not I can arrange it.
Good.
Harper noticed.
“I also want to leave Laura eventually.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Because of Greg?”
“No.”
“Paul?”
“No.”
“Me?”
“Partly.”
He almost smiled.
She continued:
“I’m tired.”
“Of restaurants?”
“Of being invisible.”
That was the truth.
She had thought invisibility protected her.
Maybe it had once.
Now it felt smaller.
Roman looked at her.
“You were never invisible to my mother.”
Harper swallowed.
That was annoyingly good.
They reached a park bench.
Roman sat.
Harper did too.
Then he said:
“I started ASL lessons.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Three times a week.”
“Since when?”
“Wednesday.”
“That’s four days.”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.”
He frowned.
“You’re mocking me.”
“A little.”
He lifted his hands.
Signed something.
Harper stared.
Then laughed so hard she bent forward.
Roman looked offended.
“What?”
“You just signed ‘My mother is a beautiful refrigerator.’”
His face went blank.
“I was trying to say independent.”
Harper could barely breathe.
“Not even close.”
“Show me.”
She did.
Slowly.
He copied.
Better.
Again.
Better.
They practiced for ten minutes.
Roman Moretti on a public bench, trying to sign:
My mother deserves to decide.
It took eight attempts.
On the ninth, correct.
Harper’s laughter faded.
He looked at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Harper.”
She shook her head.
“You’re trying.”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
He looked toward the street.
“Because I’m thirty-eight.”
First age. Fine.
“And my mother has spent thirty years adjusting to me.”
He swallowed.
“I can spend some time adjusting to her.”
That hit deeply.
Harper looked away.
Roman continued.
“And because I don’t want someone like Paolo standing between us again.”
There it was.
Practical.
Emotional.
Real.
They walked back.
At Beatatrice’s door, Roman stopped.
“Dinner?”
Harper smiled.
“This was dinner-adjacent.”
“Friday.”
“Are you always persistent?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not always attractive.”
“I’m learning.”
She studied him.
“Friday.”
His face changed.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Can I kiss you?”
Harper froze.
Not from fear.
From surprise.
Roman Moretti asked.
Did not assume.
She looked at him.
Then:
“No.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
No anger.
Good.
She smiled.
“Maybe Friday.”
His eyes warmed.
“Very manipulative.”
“Goodnight.”
Friday dinner was at a small Italian place in Brooklyn.
Not Moretti-owned.
Harper checked.
No private room.
One bodyguard across the street.
Compromise.
They talked.
Not crime.
Mostly.
Books.
Beatatrice.
Leo.
Roman’s childhood.
Harper learned Antonio Moretti praised sons by giving them responsibility, never affection.
Roman learned Harper’s mother still left voicemails instead of texts because “written words feel too serious.”
They argued about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Roman’s answer was wrong.
At the end, outside the restaurant, he asked again.
“Can I kiss you?”
Harper smiled.
“Yes.”
The kiss was quiet.
No cinematic music.
No danger.
Just warmth.
Then Roman stepped back first.
Good.
Harper went home smiling.
At 11:12 p.m., her phone buzzed.
Beatatrice.
Video.
She signed:
How was dinner?
Harper stared.
Then:
Your son is annoying.
Beatatrice replied almost instantly.
I know.
Harper laughed.
Then another video arrived.
Beatatrice’s expression changed.
Serious.
Tomorrow, I want you with me when I speak to Roman about something.
Harper frowned.
What?
Beatatrice signed slowly.
His father.
Then:
There is something Roman believes about Antonio that is not true.
Harper’s smile disappeared.
She had thought the family’s biggest secret was Paolo.
May you like
Apparently Beatatrice had one of her own.
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