Chapter 3 - Table Seven
Roman did not open the envelope.
That surprised Peter.
It surprised Roman too.
Instead, he pushed it back across the diner table.
“Explain first.”
Peter looked at the envelope.
“You always were stubborn.”
“You knew me?”
“When you were young.”
“How young?”
“Five. Six. Seven.”
Roman searched the man’s face.
Nothing.
No memory.
“You were around my family?”
“For a while.”
“I don’t remember you.”
Peter gave him a faint smile.
“That doesn’t offend me as much as you think.”
Roman leaned back.
“Then tell me.”
Mia was drawing beside them.
Roman glanced at her.
“This conversation isn’t for her.”
Peter nodded.
“Agreed.”
Roman called Rebecca.
Ten minutes later, she arrived.
Mia protested when Roman asked her to leave.
“But I’m not done.”
“You can finish tomorrow.”
“With you?”
Roman hesitated.
It lasted less than a second.
Mia noticed anyway.
Peter noticed too.
Roman hated that.
“Yes,” Roman said. “With me.”
Mia smiled.
“Promise?”
Roman looked at his daughter.
“Promise.”
After she left with Rebecca, Roman sat across from Peter in the suddenly quieter booth.
“Now.”
Peter stirred coffee he was not drinking.
“Your father and I met when we were teenagers.”
“Where?”
“Catholic school.”
Roman almost laughed.
“My father got kicked out of Catholic school.”
“Correct.”
“You?”
“I helped.”
That sounded plausible.
Peter smiled at the memory.
“Vincent had a gift for making bad ideas sound noble.”
“That also sounds right.”
“We stayed friends into our thirties.”
“Then what happened?”
“Life.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s also true.”
Peter looked out the window.
“Your father became responsible for more people. More money. More obligations. I went another direction. Teaching. Marriage. Mortgage. Ordinary stuff.”
“And you just stopped talking?”
“No.”
Peter looked back at him.
“We talked less.”
Roman understood that more than he wanted to.
“Why did my father trust you with that letter?”
“Because I knew him before everybody started being afraid to disagree with him.”
Roman’s expression tightened.
“You’re suggesting nobody disagreed with him?”
“I’m suggesting he stopped listening.”
Peter tapped the envelope.
“He knew it too.”
Roman crossed his arms.
“What does this have to do with Mia?”
Peter’s expression softened.
“Everything.”
Roman waited.
“Your father regretted parts of how he raised you.”
Roman’s face hardened.
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“What parts?”
Peter considered his answer carefully.
“He protected you from everything.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t.”
Peter leaned back.
“Vincent always knew where you were. Who you were with. Who your teachers were. Who your friends’ parents were. He had people watching the school before school security was normal.”
Roman stared.
“That sounds responsible.”
Peter nodded.
“It was.”
“Then what was the problem?”
“He forgot to ask whether you were happy.”
The words irritated Roman instantly.
“Don’t psychoanalyze my childhood.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Roman, I knew your father. I knew you.”
“You knew me when I was seven.”
“Sometimes seven tells you enough.”
Roman looked toward the door.
He considered leaving.
Peter continued.
“You used to build model airplanes.”
Roman’s attention returned.
“You hated soccer.”
Another forgotten detail.
“You collected subway tokens because you thought every station should have its own currency.”
Roman’s mouth almost moved.
He remembered that.
Barely.
Peter continued.
“You were obsessed with sharks.”
Roman said nothing.
“Your father knew none of those things.”
Roman’s anger faded into something less comfortable.
“That’s not true.”
“It was then.”
“He worked.”
“I know.”
“He had responsibilities.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know what his life required.”
Peter nodded.
“You’re right.”
The easy agreement threw Roman off.
Peter looked at the scratched watch.
“But I know what he regretted.”
Roman stared at him.
“When Vincent got sick, he started calling me again.”
“I never knew that.”
“He didn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
Peter smiled sadly.
“Pride. Shame. Nostalgia. Pick one.”
Roman looked at the envelope.
“He asked you to watch me?”
“Not in the creepy way you’re imagining.”
“You’ve spoken to my daughter for two months.”
“Fair criticism.”
Roman’s jaw shifted.
Peter continued.
“He asked me that if you ever had children, and if I happened to still be around, I should pay attention.”
“Pay attention to what?”
“To whether you did what he did.”
Roman almost laughed.
“That’s absurd.”
“Maybe.”
“I provide everything Mia needs.”
“I believe you.”
“She has the best school I could find.”
“I know.”
“She is protected.”
“I know.”
“She has people around her constantly.”
“I know.”
Roman stopped.
Peter’s eyes held his.
“That’s the problem.”
Roman’s voice lowered.
“What did you say?”
“I said that’s the problem.”
Peter gestured toward the diner.
“I know Mia comes here on Thursdays.”
“So?”
“I know she orders strawberry pancakes.”
Roman said nothing.
“I know she hates syrup touching the strawberries because she says it makes them slippery.”
Silence.
“She likes green pencils more than blue ones.”
Roman’s face tightened.
“She keeps the crust on grilled cheese but removes it from toast.”
Peter paused.
“She thinks pigeons are secretly mean.”
Roman stared at the table.
Peter’s voice softened.
“Do you know any of that?”
Roman’s answer came quickly.
“I know my daughter.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t love her.”
“Don’t play games.”
“I’m not.”
Peter leaned forward.
“What’s her favorite color?”
Roman almost answered blue.
Then stopped.
He remembered Mia reaching for green pencils.
“Green,” he said.
Peter nodded.
“Why?”
Roman had no idea.
Peter waited.
Roman’s face grew hot.
“What’s your point?”
“You know her schedule.”
Roman looked up.
“You know the name of every adult responsible for her.”
Peter’s voice remained quiet.
“You know what time she goes to school. What time she gets home. What allergies she doesn’t have. What doctor she sees. What route Rebecca drives.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“How do you know that?”
“I know men like you.”
“Men like me.”
“I knew your father.”
There it was again.
The comparison.
Roman stood.
“I’m done.”
Peter did not stop him.
Roman picked up the envelope.
Then paused.
“One question.”
Peter waited.
“Why did Mia draw you in my kitchen?”
“I asked her that.”
Roman turned.
Peter smiled faintly.
“She said the kitchen is where family sits.”
Roman stared at him.
“And she said you know Grandpa.”
Peter looked away.
“She’s six.”
Roman’s voice hardened.
“She’s my daughter.”
“I know.”
“And you had no right.”
Peter nodded.
“You’re right.”
Again.
No argument.
No excuse.
Roman almost preferred a fight.
He left.
At home that evening, Mia sat on the kitchen floor coloring.
Roman walked past twice.
The third time, he stopped.
“Why green?”
Mia looked up.
“What?”
“Your favorite color.”
Her face brightened.
“Because of the tree.”
“What tree?”
“The one outside my window.”
Roman frowned.
“There’s a tree outside your window?”
Mia looked at him as if he had asked whether the house had a roof.
“Yes.”
Roman had never noticed it.
He went upstairs.
Mia followed.
Her bedroom window faced the back garden.
A maple tree stretched toward the second floor.
Its leaves pressed close to the glass.
Mia touched the window.
“When it rains, the leaves look shiny.”
Roman stared.
He had designed the security layout for this room.
He had chosen reinforced windows.
He had approved the alarm contacts.
He had never looked at the tree.
Mia tugged his sleeve.
“Are you mad at Peter?”
Roman looked down.
“I don’t know.”
“He’s funny.”
“I doubt that.”
“He is.”
Roman sat on the edge of her bed.
“Did Peter ask you questions about me?”
“Sometimes.”
“What kind?”
Mia thought.
“He asked if you eat breakfast.”
Roman swallowed.
“What did you say?”
“I said coffee.”
Roman looked away.
“He asked if you read my stories.”
Roman’s throat tightened.
“What did you say?”
Mia shrugged.
“That Rebecca does.”
Something changed inside him.
Small.
Painful.
He looked at his daughter.
“What stories do you like?”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
Mia ran to her bookshelf and pulled out a book about a fox and a lighthouse.
Roman took it.
“Want me to read?”
Her eyes widened.
“Now?”
“If you want.”
Mia climbed onto the bed.
Roman opened the book.
The envelope from his father remained unopened in his jacket downstairs.
For the first time in years, Roman Falcone ignored something he desperately wanted to know because his daughter wanted something else.
Twenty minutes later, Mia fell asleep against his arm.
Roman carried her under the blanket.
Before leaving, he noticed another drawing taped beside her desk.
A family at a table.
Mia.
A woman who might have been Rebecca.
A man Roman assumed was himself.
And one empty chair.
Roman stared at it for a long time.
Then he went downstairs and finally opened his father’s envelope.
Inside was only one sheet.
Roman—
If Peter gives you this, then he thinks you’re ready to hear something you’ll hate.
Roman stopped reading.
May you like
At the bottom of the page was a second line.
Before you finish this letter, ask Peter about the empty chair.
