Chapter 10 - Before Everyone Became Afraid of Him
Luca’s exhibition was held in a converted warehouse in Pilsen.
White walls.
Concrete floors.
Cheap wine.
Young artists trying very hard to look as though they did not care whether anyone liked their work.
Adrien arrived in a soft navy jacket, gray trousers, white shirt, no tie.
I had chosen everything.
When he walked through the entrance, nobody moved aside.
At first, he looked confused.
Then relieved.
I stood near the back wall beside Teresa.
“You did that,” she said.
“He dressed himself.”
“After sending you twelve photographs.”
“Eleven.”
Teresa smiled.
“Progress.”
Luca spotted us.
His entire face changed.
“Uncle Adrien.”
Adrien walked toward him.
The boy looked nervous.
His largest painting hung behind him.
A man standing at the edge of Lake Michigan at dawn.
Broad shoulders.
Dark coat.
Back to the viewer.
Alone.
Adrien stopped.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then he looked at Luca.
“That’s me.”
Luca swallowed.
“Yes.”
Adrien studied the painting.
“Why am I facing away?”
Luca shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Because that’s how I remember you at Dad’s funeral.”
Adrien went still.
Teresa touched my arm.
Neither of us moved.
Luca continued.
“Everyone was crying, and you stood by the lake.”
Adrien looked again at the painting.
“I thought you didn’t want anyone to see you.”
The room around them blurred.
At least to me.
Adrien asked, “Is that what you thought?”
Luca nodded.
“I used to think you didn’t get sad.”
Something in Adrien broke.
Not dramatically.
His shoulders simply lowered.
“I got sad.”
Luca waited.
“I still do.”
The boy’s eyes filled.
Adrien placed a hand behind his neck and pulled him into a hug.
It lasted maybe three seconds.
For that family, I suspected it was revolutionary.
Teresa wiped her eyes.
“I paid for waterproof mascara,” she muttered.
I smiled.
Later, Luca sold two paintings.
Adrien bought none.
At first I thought that strange.
Then I overheard him telling a collector:
“If I buy them, he’ll think they sold because I’m his uncle.”
I looked at him.
He caught me watching.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re bad at that word.”
“Learning.”
Near the end of the evening, Adrien came to stand beside me.
“Walk with me.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“Is that an order?”
“A request.”
“Better.”
We stepped onto the sidewalk.
Chicago air had turned cool.
The city hummed around us.
No security in sight.
No reporters.
Just people moving between restaurants and galleries.
Adrien slipped his hands into his pockets.
“I spoke to Luca’s instructor.”
“Oh?”
“He has talent.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“You sound surprised.”
He ignored that.
“The instructor thinks New York would be good for him.”
“And?”
“He’s going.”
I smiled.
Adrien looked at me.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
“It makes me feel manipulated.”
“Excellent.”
He shook his head.
Then we walked another half block.
A couple passed us without recognizing him.
Adrien watched them go.
“This is strange.”
“What?”
“No one staring.”
“You’re wearing loafers.”
“That cannot be the reason.”
“Never underestimate loafers.”
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Not loud.
But free.
I stopped walking.
Adrien noticed.
“What?”
“You laugh differently outside the shop now.”
His expression shifted.
“You monitor my laughter?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Most things I say to you don’t.”
“That is increasingly clear.”
We reached a small coffee shop still open.
Adrien looked at it.
“Coffee?”
“You’re asking me to enter an establishment without a reservation?”
“I’m trying to expand.”
I considered him.
“Fine.”
We sat at a tiny table near the window.
Adrien looked absurdly large in the chair.
I told him so.
He looked offended.
“Your shop has better chairs.”
“I chose them.”
“I’m beginning to see a pattern.”
We talked for ninety minutes.
Not about suits.
Not about property deals.
Not about Veronica.
He told me about his father taking him fishing at Lake Geneva.
About Marco stealing his first car at fifteen.
About Teresa teaching all the Moretti boys to cook because, in her words, “A man who can’t feed himself has no business giving orders.”
I told him about growing up above my parents’ dry-cleaning store.
About learning to sew on my grandmother’s machine.
About my first disastrous prom dress.
“How disastrous?”
“The zipper broke while she was dancing.”
Adrien winced.
“Did she sue?”
“She married my cousin.”
“That seems excessive.”
I laughed so loudly the barista looked over.
At ten-thirty, we stepped outside.
Adrien stood beside me.
Neither of us moved.
“This feels like dinner,” he said.
“It was coffee.”
“An hour and a half.”
“Slow coffee.”
“Claire.”
I knew what he was asking.
I also knew my answer had changed.
“Yes.”
He went still.
“Yes?”
“Dinner.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
“I have a meeting Friday.”
“Then I guess civilization ends.”
“I can move it.”
I smiled.
“Seven.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“No.”
His eyebrow rose.
“I’ll meet you.”
“Why?”
“Because I like having an exit strategy.”
He accepted that too.
“Seven.”
I walked toward my car.
“Claire.”
I turned.
Adrien stood beneath the streetlight, hands in his pockets, looking nothing like the man who had entered my shop expecting the room to move.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
He glanced back toward the gallery.
“For telling me the suit was lying.”
My throat tightened.
“You’re welcome.”
I drove home smiling.
That should have been the beginning of something simple.
Instead, the following afternoon, Mr. Cole called.
Vale Urban had withdrawn its offer.
Good news.
Then came the bad.
Another buyer had appeared.
A shell company.
Cash.
Closing fast.
And when Niko traced the ownership, the name behind it wasn’t Vale.
May you like
It was Moretti.
---
