Chapter 18 - A Table Set for Tomorrow
Six months after Julian Mercer’s arrest, the Rossy mansion smelled like bread.
Vincent found this deeply strange.
For most of his adult life, the house had smelled like polished wood, cigars, expensive alcohol, and fear.
Now people argued about onions.
Enzo stood in the commercial kitchen shouting.
“Who ordered forty pounds of zucchini?”
Norah raised her hand.
“You.”
“I would never.”
“You signed the invoice.”
“Forgery.”
Vincent entered.
“Julian’s gone. You need a new excuse.”
Enzo pointed toward the vegetables.
“This is sabotage.”
Norah smiled.
“You own a restaurant now.”
“A successful restaurant.”
“Three weeks old.”
“Still successful.”
Enzo had opened Lucia’s two months earlier.
Simple Italian-American food.
No gold flakes.
No celebrity chefs.
His most popular dish was chicken soup.
Vincent complained this constituted intellectual property theft.
Norah informed him soup was older than organized crime.
He had no response.
Lucia’s Table opened officially that weekend.
The old estate ballroom had become a community dining room.
The commercial kitchen offered paid culinary training.
A portion of the property housed financial counseling programs for families affected by gambling debt.
That had been Liam’s idea.
Norah cried when he suggested it.
Liam was now nine months without gambling.
He still attended meetings twice a week.
Still paid Norah thirty dollars every Friday.
She still placed every payment into the envelope.
Vincent discovered she was secretly saving it for Liam.
He said nothing.
Some acts of love did not need witnesses.
Vincent’s legal situation had also changed.
He had testified.
Fully enough to make enemies.
Carefully enough to avoid pretending innocence.
Several charges tied to older financial operations resulted in fines, restrictions, and negotiated penalties.
His attorneys called the outcome fortunate.
Vincent called it expensive.
Norah called it consequences.
He liked her version least.
It was probably the most accurate.
The legitimate shipping company survived.
So did several real estate businesses.
More importantly, Vincent was no longer running the organization that had defined his adult life.
People still used the old title.
Boss.
He corrected them less often than Norah wished.
One afternoon she found him in his study staring at a photograph.
His father.
Brother.
Grandmother.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Terrible answer.”
He smiled.
“You stole that from me.”
“Everything good in this house came from me.”
“Modest.”
She sat beside him.
Vincent handed her the photograph.
“I thought leaving would feel like losing.”
“Does it?”
“Sometimes.”
Norah waited.
“Mostly it feels quiet.”
“Do you dislike quiet?”
“I’m learning.”
He looked at her.
“I don’t know who I am now.”
Norah considered.
“You’re irritating.”
“Helpful.”
“You hate oatmeal.”
“Correct.”
“You pretend you don’t like children, but yesterday I watched you spend forty minutes fixing that little boy’s toy truck.”
“It was mechanically interesting.”
“He was four.”
“The engineering was flawed.”
Norah laughed.
Vincent smiled.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
“What?”
“You.”
He frowned.
Norah touched his hand.
“You don’t need a title every day.”
Vincent looked at their hands.
Six months earlier, touch meant vulnerability.
Now it felt like proof.
That evening, they prepared for the opening dinner.
One hundred guests.
Families.
Employees.
Lawyers.
Neighbors.
Mrs. Delgado occupied the best table and complained loudly about the chair.
Liam adjusted it three times.
Nothing satisfied her.
At seven, Norah entered the ballroom.
Vincent was waiting.
Black suit.
No tie.
Health returned to his face.
He had gained twenty-three pounds since the night they met.
He was not the same man.
Not only physically.
“You look nervous,” Norah said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“One hundred people are eating food prepared in my house.”
“That used to happen.”
“Yes, but I never cared whether they enjoyed themselves.”
Norah smiled.
“You care now.”
“Terrible development.”
She took his hand.
Guests sat.
Enzo emerged from the kitchen.
Dinner began.
Vincent ate.
Not cautiously.
Not one suspicious bite followed by waiting.
He simply ate.
Halfway through the meal, Norah noticed and stopped speaking.
Vincent looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
She smiled.
“Remember the first bowl?”
Vincent looked down at his plate.
“Yes.”
“You waited after every bite.”
“I remember.”
“You don’t anymore.”
Vincent realized she was right.
The fear had not vanished completely.
Maybe it never would.
But it no longer owned the table.
He reached across and took her hand.
“I had a good teacher.”
“I’m not a therapist.”
“No.”
“You needed one.”
“I had three.”
“And?”
“I liked the cook better.”
She laughed.
After dinner, Vincent stood to speak.
Public speeches had never frightened him.
This one did.
He looked at the room.
Then toward the old kitchen doorway.
“My grandmother believed a table was successful if nobody left hungry.”
Mrs. Delgado shouted, “Smart woman.”
Everyone laughed.
Vincent smiled.
“Six months ago, I thought this house represented everything I had built.”
He paused.
“I was wrong.”
Norah watched him.
Vincent continued.
“A house is not what you protect from people. It’s what you can share with them.”
Silence.
Then applause.
Vincent hated applause.
Tonight he tolerated it.
Later, when the guests left, Norah and Vincent returned to the forgotten kitchen.
A small pot remained on the stove.
Chicken broth.
Naturally.
Vincent looked at her.
“You planned this.”
“Maybe.”
She filled two bowls.
They sat at the old table.
No guards.
No business.
No fear.
Vincent tasted it.
“Too much pepper.”
Norah stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Definitely.”
“You have become dangerously confident.”
“I’ve developed standards.”
She pushed his bowl away.
He grabbed it back.
“I didn’t say stop.”
Norah laughed.
They ate.
When the bowls were empty, Vincent reached into his pocket.
Norah saw the small box.
Her expression changed.
“Vincent.”
He suddenly looked terrified.
She covered her mouth.
“You survived poisoning and criminal conspiracy, but this scares you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He laughed nervously.
Then opened the box.
The ring was simple.
Not enormous.
Not designed to impress a room.
Very unlike the man Vincent used to be.
“Norah Bennett.”
She looked at him.
“You gave me food when you thought nobody was watching.”
Her eyes filled.
“You trusted me when I had given you every reason not to trust my world.”
He took her hand.
“You reminded me tomorrow exists.”
Norah began crying.
Vincent smiled.
“I know you hate crying.”
“Continue.”
“I’m trying.”
“Faster.”
He laughed.
“Will you marry me?”
Norah stared at him for three seconds.
Then five.
Vincent’s face changed.
“This pause feels unnecessary.”
She started laughing through tears.
“Yes.”
Vincent exhaled.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He placed the ring on her finger.
Norah leaned forward and kissed him.
And somewhere upstairs, Enzo shouted:
“I KNEW IT.”
Norah pulled away.
Vincent closed his eyes.
“I’m firing him.”
“No.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Wedding gift to myself.”
Norah laughed again.
Tomorrow.
The word no longer frightened Vincent.
May you like
It sounded like something worth reaching.
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