Chapter 3 - THE MARK INSIDE THE ROSE
Vincent did not sit down.
Neither did Camille.
The twenty-four guests remained at the table, but the dinner had ended.
Everyone knew it.
Vincent closed the little rose clasp.
“Everybody out.”
Nobody argued.
Chairs moved.
Napkins were abandoned beside half-finished desserts.
Within three minutes, the townhouse that had been filled with conversation and string music felt almost empty.
Camille watched the guests leave.
“You didn’t need to dismiss them like criminals.”
Vincent looked at her.
“They came for dinner.”
His eyes moved to the broken pearls.
“This is family.”
The last guest disappeared into the hall.
Vincent turned to one of his men.
“Make sure nobody bothers Hannah’s family tonight.”
My stomach tightened.
“My family?”
“You just told me your grandfather repaired this.”
“That doesn’t mean my family needs protection.”
“It means people may start asking questions.”
“I don’t want people at my parents’ house.”
Vincent studied me for a moment.
Then nodded once.
“Fair.”
He looked at his men.
“No one goes there unless Hannah asks.”
That was the first time all evening he had changed an instruction because I objected.
Camille noticed too.
I picked up the strand again.
“If my grandfather worked on this, my father might remember it.”
“Your father worked with him?”
“Since he was fourteen.”
Vincent looked toward the clock.
It was almost ten.
“I can wait until morning.”
I thought about Dad.
His stroke had taken speed from him.
Not intelligence.
Not memory.
Just speed.
“He’s usually awake until eleven.”
Vincent said, “Then I’d like to ask him.”
Camille folded her arms.
“You’re going to walk into Hannah’s parents’ home tonight?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I’m going to ask permission first.”
It was such a normal sentence that for a second I forgot who he was.
I called Mom.
I told her I had something Grandpa once repaired and asked if Dad felt up to looking at it.
Twenty minutes later, Vincent Marino and Camille DeSantis stood in my parents’ narrow South Philadelphia living room beneath a ceiling fan that clicked every fourth turn.
No guards inside.
No expensive dinner.
No chandeliers.
Dad sat in his recliner wearing gray sweatpants and a Phillies sweatshirt.
His right hand rested beside him.
His left held a mug.
He looked at Vincent.
Then at Camille.
Then at me.
“You,” he said slowly, “bring... strange... company.”
I almost laughed.
“Apparently.”
Mom took the necklace from my hand and carried it to Dad.
The second he saw the rose clasp, the mug slipped slightly in his fingers.
Mom caught it.
Dad stared.
“Arthur.”
I knelt beside him.
“That’s Grandpa’s mark.”
Dad nodded.
“Made... rose.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“My mother’s clasp?”
Dad looked at him.
“You Teresa’s boy?”
Something changed in Vincent’s face.
Nobody called him somebody’s boy anymore.
“Yes.”
Dad nodded.
“Eyes same.”
Camille turned away.
Dad touched the clasp with one finger.
“Teresa... came shop.”
“When?” Vincent asked.
Dad struggled.
I knew that expression.
He could see the memory.
The words were just trapped behind a door.
Mom spoke gently.
“Take your time.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“Before.”
“Before she died?”
He nodded.
“How long?”
Dad held up one finger.
“One week?” I asked.
He nodded again.
Vincent stared at the necklace.
“My mother was already sick.”
Dad said, “Still walked.”
Then his face changed.
“Elena.”
Camille stepped closer.
“My mother was there?”
Dad nodded.
“And someone else?” I asked.
He looked toward the hallway.
“Red box.”
Mom frowned.
“What red box?”
Dad pointed toward the back room.
“My father’s old tool chest?”
“Yes.”
I brought it out.
The box had belonged to Grandpa for nearly forty years.
Most of the tools were gone.
Dad and I had packed them away after Grandpa died.
At the bottom were photographs.
Grandpa photographed unusual repairs because he liked to remember difficult work.
Dad pushed through them with his left hand.
Then stopped.
A faded Polaroid.
Three women stood behind the jewelry counter.
I recognized Teresa immediately from the photograph in Vincent’s library.
She was thinner.
A scarf covered her hair.
Beside her stood Elena DeSantis.
And half behind Elena was a younger woman in a red coat.
Vincent took the photograph.
His hand trembled once.
“Sofia.”
Camille whispered, “Oh my God.”
Sofia looked no older than twenty-seven.
Her coat was buttoned high.
Her face pale.
Teresa’s pearl necklace lay on a velvet pad in front of them.
Dad pointed at Sofia.
“Baby.”
Vincent looked at him.
“What?”
Dad touched his stomach.
“Baby.”
I stared at the photograph again.
The coat was oversized.
But once Dad said it, I saw the way Sofia’s hand rested low across her stomach.
Camille sat down.
Vincent didn’t move at all.
“My sister was pregnant.”
Dad nodded.
“When she left Philadelphia?”
Another nod.
Vincent looked at Camille.
“You knew.”
Camille’s face tightened.
“Not then.”
“But later.”
“Yes.”
“How much later?”
“Two years.”
Vincent’s jaw hardened.
“You have known for four years that my sister left this city pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“She asked me not to.”
“She asked you?”
Camille’s voice sharpened.
“Yes, Vincent. She asked me.”
He turned away.
I looked at Dad.
“What did Grandpa do to the necklace?”
Dad made a looping motion with his finger.
“Shorten.”
“How many pearls?”
He looked frustrated.
Then he reached into the tool chest and picked up an old measuring gauge.
He tapped it forty-six times? No.
He shook his head.
“One out.”
Vincent turned.
“One pearl was removed?”
Dad nodded.
“For baby.”
Camille covered her mouth.
I looked at the photograph again.
One week before Teresa Marino died, she had brought her daughter, her closest friend, and the family necklace into my grandfather’s shop.
She had the rose clasp repaired.
She had one pearl removed.
And apparently she had done it for an unborn grandchild Vincent never knew existed.
Vincent’s voice was very quiet.
“Is the child alive?”
Camille’s eyes closed.
“Yes.”
“Boy or girl?”
“A boy.”
“How old?”
“Five.”
Vincent looked like somebody had struck him without touching him.
Five birthdays.
Five Christmas mornings.
Five years of first words, scraped knees, photographs, school shoes.
All gone.
“What is his name?”
“Benjamin.”
Vincent sat down for the first time.
He stared at the floor.
“Does he know who I am?”
Camille hesitated.
“That depends what you mean.”
Vincent lifted his head.
“Does my nephew know he has an uncle?”
“Yes.”
That seemed to hurt more.
Dad touched Vincent’s arm.
Vincent looked at him.
Dad struggled for the words.
“Not... too late.”
Vincent swallowed.
Then his eyes moved to Camille.
“Where is Sofia?”
She said nothing.
“Camille.”
“I promised her.”
“My mother put her name inside this clasp.”
“I know.”
“She was pregnant when she left.”
“I know.”
“My nephew is five years old.”
Camille’s voice broke.
“I know.”
“Where is she?”
Camille looked at me.
Then at the photograph.
Then at Vincent.
“Before I tell you, you need to understand something.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to arrive with six cars and ten men and tell her she belongs to you again.”
Vincent’s expression darkened.
“She is my sister.”
“Exactly.”
Camille stepped closer.
“She is your sister. Not your employee. Not your responsibility. Not a problem for you to solve.”
Vincent’s face tightened.
Camille held his gaze.
“If you go, you go without orders.”
Silence.
Then Vincent nodded.
“Fine.”
“And if she tells you to leave?”
“I leave.”
Camille studied him for several seconds.
Finally, she picked up her coat.
“I know where Sofia is.”
Vincent stood.
May you like
“Take me to her.”
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