Chapter 18 - A House With More Windows
The house became theirs in October.
Camille refused to let Alessandro replace everything.
“The floors stay.”
“They creak.”
“They’re old.”
“That’s why they creak.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.”
She kept the floors.
Sophie chose a bedroom with pale walls and river views.
She filled shelves with sketchbooks, rocks, postcards and enough stuffed animals to make Alessandro wonder whether they multiplied overnight.
The cream-colored rabbit from the airplane received the place of honor beside the bed.
Camille claimed the upstairs studio.
Alessandro converted a smaller downstairs room into an office.
For the first time in his adult life, his office contained crayons.
Not intentionally.
Sophie simply left them everywhere.
The dog arrived two weeks later.
Camille lost that battle.
A rescued golden retriever mix named Milo became part of the family after Sophie announced he had “dad eyebrows.”
Nobody knew what that meant.
Alessandro adopted him immediately.
The criminal proceedings continued in Manhattan.
Vittorio eventually accepted a plea agreement involving a lengthy prison sentence and financial forfeiture.
Alessandro testified.
The courthouse steps were crowded with reporters.
One asked if he regretted cooperating against his own family.
Alessandro stopped.
Camille watched from nearby.
He answered simply.
“I cooperated because of my family.”
Then he walked away.
The quote spread everywhere.
This time Alessandro did not care.
He returned home before dinner.
Sophie was waiting with a school project.
“You’re late.”
“Six minutes.”
“Still late.”
“I know.”
She handed him construction paper.
“I need family pictures.”
Alessandro looked at the page.
There were spaces labeled MOM, ME and DAD.
His throat tightened.
“You put me here?”
Sophie frowned.
“Where else would you go?”
Children could turn miracles into obvious facts.
That evening Alessandro helped her glue photographs.
Camille watched from the kitchen.
Their life was not perfect.
Alessandro still woke sometimes from dreams about the garage on Mott Street.
Camille still panicked when unknown cars remained outside too long.
Sophie sometimes asked questions whose answers were difficult.
“Why didn’t Dad know me when I was a baby?”
“Because adults lied.”
“Why?”
“Because they thought power was more important than people.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
“Does Dad still have power?”
Camille smiled.
“Ask him.”
Sophie did.
Alessandro thought carefully.
“Some.”
“What do you do with it?”
“Hopefully better things.”
“Like?”
He pointed toward her unfinished school project.
“Apparently glue photographs.”
“That isn’t power.”
“It feels complicated enough.”
By winter, Camille began painting differently.
Faces returned.
Not all.
But some.
Her first completed piece in the new studio showed three figures sitting inside an airplane.
A little girl beside a window.
A man beside her.
A woman visible several rows behind.
The title was Seat 14A.
Alessandro stood before it for a long time.
“You painted me too handsome.”
Camille stared.
“That’s your criticism?”
“I’m trying to remain objective.”
“You’re impossible.”
He looked at the painting again.
“Can I buy it?”
“No.”
“I’ll pay market price.”
“No.”
“Above market.”
“No.”
“What kind of gallery negotiation is this?”
“It isn’t for sale.”
“Why?”
Camille wrapped her arms around him from behind.
“Some things stay home.”
Alessandro covered her hands with his.
He understood.
Christmas arrived.
Lucia visited.
Marco came too.
The first family dinner was uncomfortable for approximately twelve minutes.
Then Sophie forced everyone into a card game and accused Marco of cheating.
“I spent eleven years underground,” he protested. “I have standards.”
“That does not help your case,” Camille said.
Lucia laughed.
Alessandro looked around the table.
His brother alive.
His mother no longer carrying every secret alone.
Camille beside him.
Sophie arguing passionately about card rules.
This was family.
Not loyalty enforced by fear.
Not names written in trusts.
People who stayed because they chose to.
After dinner Lucia gave Sophie a small box.
Inside was Giancarlo’s silver fountain pen.
Alessandro stiffened.
Lucia noticed.
“If you don’t want her to have it—”
“It’s fine.”
Sophie held the pen.
“What do I do with it?”
“Write things,” Lucia said.
“I draw.”
“Then draw.”
Sophie nodded.
Simple.
The object did not have to carry the weight adults gave it.
That night Alessandro and Camille stood outside beneath the first light snow.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
“I’m French. We survive weather.”
“That sentence has no logic.”
“Yet you understood it.”
He put his coat around her anyway.
Camille looked toward the lit windows.
“Do you remember Florence?”
“Every detail.”
“You followed me around a gallery for forty minutes.”
“You were rude.”
“You liked it.”
“Yes.”
She turned toward him.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if Mott Street never happened?”
“All the time.”
“Me too.”
He waited.
Camille continued.
“But lately less.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to imagine the life we should have had.”
She looked through the window where Sophie was trying to make Milo wear a paper crown.
“Now I’m busy living the one we have.”
Alessandro touched her face.
“I want to ask you something.”
Camille immediately narrowed her eyes.
“No.”
“You don’t know the question.”
“I know that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The dramatic Italian man tone.”
“I only have one tone.”
“Absolutely false.”
He reached into his coat.
Camille stepped back.
“Alessandro.”
He stopped.
Not because she was refusing him.
Because he understood what frightened her.
Old Alessandro would have continued.
New Alessandro asked.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Camille looked at him.
Then at his hand still inside the coat.
“No.”
He removed a small box.
Inside was not a large diamond.
Camille had once told him she hated jewelry that looked like architecture.
The ring was simple.
Elegant.
Alessandro did not kneel.
Not yet.
“I spent years thinking love meant keeping someone safe by controlling every danger around them.”
Camille’s eyes filled.
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Thank you for the support.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I can’t promise nothing bad ever happens.”
“No one can.”
“I can promise no secrets designed to control you.”
“Good.”
“No disappearing.”
“Very good.”
“No deciding your life for you.”
“Excellent.”
He looked at her.
“And I can promise I will keep choosing you and Sophie, even when choosing you costs me something.”
Camille began crying.
Alessandro opened the box fully.
“Camille Laurent, would you consider spending the rest of your life reminding me when I’m being unbearable?”
She laughed through tears.
“That is a full-time job.”
“I can afford excellent benefits.”
She hit his chest lightly.
Then she kissed him.
“You didn’t answer,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Yes?”
“Yes, Alessandro.”
Only then did he kneel.
Inside the house, Sophie saw them through the window.
She screamed loudly enough to frighten Milo.
“THEY’RE GETTING MARRIED!”
Camille laughed against Alessandro’s shoulder.
The house filled with movement.
Doors opened.
Sophie ran outside without shoes.
Lucia followed carrying them.
Marco appeared holding a glass of wine.
Snow fell around everyone.
It should have been the ending.
But Sophie had one final request.
“If you get married,” she said, “we have to fly to Paris.”
Camille wiped her tears.
“Why?”
“Because that’s where we started.”
Alessandro looked at Sophie.
“We started on an airplane.”
“Exactly.”
And several months later, they would board another flight together.
Only this time nobody would change the seats.
Nobody would hide the truth.
May you like
And the seat beside Sophie would already belong to her father.
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