Chapter 7 - THE SECOND INVITATION
I saw Luca again at Rosa's seventy-ninth birthday.
She had invited twenty people.
Thirty-four arrived.
Apparently, half of Chicago considered itself one of Rosa Alvarez's children.
Former housekeepers.
Gardeners.
Drivers.
A nurse who had helped care for Lucia.
Two retired Moretti employees who brought their grandchildren.
Mrs. Carter arrived carrying flowers.
Robert, Luca's old cook, brought three casseroles and complained that nobody appreciated his seasoning.
Rosa stood in her kitchen threatening to throw everyone out if they treated her like an invalid.
It was the happiest room I had entered in months.
I arrived after my shift at the rehabilitation center.
Luca was standing beside the sink wearing a dark sweater and washing dishes.
I stopped in the doorway.
He saw me.
“Emma.”
“Mr. Moretti.”
He looked down at the dish towel.
“I suppose this is surprising.”
“A little.”
Rosa called from the dining room:
“He volunteered!”
I stared at Luca.
He sighed.
“She volunteered me.”
I laughed.
Then took a plate from the counter.
He glanced at me.
“How is your father?”
“Better. He's walking longer distances now.”
“That's good.”
“Some days are harder.”
He nodded.
“My mother had difficult days near the end.”
I looked at him.
He had never spoken to me about Lucia outside the letter.
“Do you remember much?”
“More than I thought.”
He dried a plate.
“She used to sing while making tea.”
“What did she sing?”
“Terribly performed Italian songs.”
I smiled.
“Rosa would dispute that.”
“Rosa thinks my mother invented music.”
We laughed.
It was strange.
We had lived in the same enormous house for nearly three years without having a real conversation.
Now, standing in Rosa's small kitchen, we seemed to find more to say in ten minutes than we had managed during all that time.
Before I left, Luca asked:
“Would you like coffee sometime?”
I stared.
“With Rosa?”
He hesitated.
“No.”
Oh.
I looked toward the dining room.
Rosa was pretending to arrange napkins.
Terribly.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
Luca looked almost uncomfortable.
“Yes.”
The most feared man at the party apparently found that word difficult.
Interesting.
I took my time.
Then said:
“I don't think we're ready for that.”
He nodded immediately.
“Fair.”
“You're still involved in all the foundation proceedings.”
“Yes.”
“And I was your employee.”
“Not anymore.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“But I'm still learning how to see you as someone other than the man whose house I cleaned.”
His expression softened.
“I understand.”
“I don't want gratitude to become romance.”
“Neither do I.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“Coffee as friends?”
I considered.
“Maybe.”
Rosa emerged with a tray.
“I heard all of that.”
Luca closed his eyes.
“Mama.”
“What? My kitchen has excellent acoustics.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
We had coffee three weeks later.
At an ordinary café near the river.
I paid for mine.
Luca tried to object.
I stared at him.
He stopped.
Progress.
We talked about books.
Work.
My father's recovery.
His mother's letters.
The foundation.
Luca admitted he had begun seeing a therapist after the engagement collapsed.
I was surprised.
“Why?”
He looked at his coffee.
“Because when I stopped surrounding myself with people who agreed with me, I discovered how bad I was at hearing things I didn't like.”
That was more self-awareness than I expected.
“Has it helped?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He smiled slightly.
“I've learned that wanting to solve someone’s problem doesn't give me the right to take over their life.”
I raised my cup.
“To expensive lessons.”
He lifted his.
“Very expensive.”
Our friendship grew slowly.
We met for coffee.
Sometimes lunch.
Occasionally, we saw each other at Rosa's apartment.
I kept working.
Finished the healthcare-administration courses I had abandoned years earlier.
My father continued improving, though the stroke had permanently changed certain parts of his life.
Luca did not pay my tuition.
Did not offer my father a private hospital.
Did not buy me a car.
That made our friendship possible.
For the first time, I could tell him no without fearing an employment consequence.
I discovered he liked old jazz records.
Hated overly sweet desserts.
Had trouble sleeping.
Could not cook rice properly.
He learned that I collected secondhand cookbooks.
Loved winter walks.
Disliked expensive restaurants where servers seemed frightened of customers.
And was fiercely protective of my father.
One evening, after a concert, Luca walked me to my car.
He stopped beside the driver's door.
“Emma.”
“Yes?”
“I still want to ask you on a date.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
“Is the answer still no?”
I thought.
Then smiled.
“Not anymore.”
His expression changed.
For once, he looked almost boyish.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He breathed.
“Good.”
Then:
“Where would you like to go?”
That was the part I liked most.
He asked.
He did not announce a reservation.
Did not send a car.
Did not decide I would enjoy the same places his wealthy acquaintances enjoyed.
I chose a small Italian restaurant in Lincoln Square.
He agreed.
Rosa found out within twenty-four hours.
Of course.
She called me.
“Bambina.”
“Yes?”
“Make him pay for dessert.”
I laughed.
“Why?”
“He has been rich for too long. It will be good for him.”
I promised to consider it.
Our first date was awkward.
Wonderful.
Occasionally ridiculous.
And when Luca asked whether he could kiss me outside the restaurant, I said yes.
May you like
That one small question meant more than all the grand gestures I had once imagined wealthy men making.
For the first time, our relationship belonged to two people who could both walk away.
