Chapter 4 - THE PROMISE UNDER THE ROSE CLASP
At eight the following morning, my mother refused to let Luca Moretti into our apartment.
Not because she was afraid of him.
Because she recognized his name.
“Moretti?” she repeated, standing beside the kitchen table with one hand resting on her walker.
Her speech was slower since the stroke, but her eyes remained sharp.
“Which Moretti?”
“Giovanni's son,” I said.
She looked toward the hallway.
“Claire, come here.”
I stepped closer.
“Mom, he wants to understand what happened to Grandpa.”
My mother's face tightened.
“Your grandfather spent thirty years waiting for that family to tell the truth.”
Luca stood quietly near the doorway.
He hadn't brought bodyguards into our apartment.
Marco waited downstairs.
Elizabeth had insisted on coming, and now sat on our small sofa, holding her old brown handbag.
My mother noticed her.
“Elizabeth?”
The two women stared at each other.
Then Elizabeth stood.
“Margaret.”
My mother began to cry.
I had never seen them together.
Yet the way Elizabeth reached for my mother's hand made it clear they had shared something more complicated than grief.
“I'm sorry,” Elizabeth whispered.
My mother shook her head.
“You sent Christmas cards.”
“I should have done more.”
“Yes,” my mother said. “You should have.”
The words were plain, almost gentle.
They hurt more because nobody could argue with them.
Luca stepped forward.
“Mrs. Bennett, I only learned about your father's accident last night.”
My mother studied him.
“You look like Giovanni.”
“I've been told.”
“He could be kind,” she said. “Especially when he was ashamed.”
Luca accepted that without defending his father.
Then he placed the old pocket watch on the table.
My mother stared at it.
“Where did you find that?”
“In Dad's desk.”
She looked at Elizabeth.
“So he kept his half.”
Elizabeth nodded.
My mother asked me to open the biscuit tin on top of her refrigerator.
Inside, beneath photographs and birthday cards, lay another silver pocket watch.
Its hands were stopped at 4:17.
The same time.
I placed it beside Giovanni's.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then my mother opened the second watch.
Beneath its face was a small, faded photograph.
Two men shaking hands outside the hospital.
Giovanni Moretti and Daniel Walsh.
My grandfather looked thin but determined.
There was a date on the back.
October 3.
Two weeks after the accident.
“Dad told me these watches weren't gifts,” my mother said. “They were reminders.”
“Of what?” Luca asked.
“That neither family should ever profit from what happened.”
Luca frowned.
“What do you mean?”
My mother sat down.
She needed a moment to gather her words.
“Giovanni wanted to pay Dad. Dad wanted the other injured workers helped too. There were four families, Luca. Not just ours.”
Luca slowly took a chair.
“Four?”
“Yes.”
“Anthony told me about compensation payments.”
My mother shook her head.
“Compensation was supposed to come first. The scholarships came later.”
Elizabeth looked confused.
“Giovanni told me he'd settled everything.”
“He tried,” Margaret said. “But the company was struggling. Dad agreed to wait.”
“For how long?” Luca asked.
My mother gave a sad smile.
“He thought a few years.”
I looked at the watches.
“Why were they stopped at 4:17?”
“That was when the crane fell,” my mother answered.
She touched her father's watch.
“Dad said some moments divide a life into before and after.”
Luca looked down.
Something about him softened.
Then my mother said something unexpected.
“Anthony came here six weeks ago.”
I turned.
“He what?”
“He brought flowers.”
“You never told me.”
“You were working.”
“What did he want?”
My mother looked at Luca.
“He asked whether Dad had left any papers.”
Anthony had been searching for the evidence before the engagement dinner.
“What did you tell him?” Luca asked.
“That my father believed promises should be kept.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
My mother continued.
“He looked tired. He said he was trying to find a way to pay back what was owed.”
“Did you believe him?”
“For a moment.”
She looked at the bills stacked beside our fruit bowl.
“Then he offered me twenty thousand dollars if I signed a release.”
My stomach dropped.
“Mom.”
“I refused.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because he said you might lose your job if the situation became public.”
The familiar threat made my face burn.
Elizabeth opened her handbag.
“I wish I'd known.”
My mother looked at her.
“You were frightened too.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze.
Then she began rubbing the brass rose clasp.
Once.
Twice.
My mother watched.
“Elizabeth, does that purse still have the false seam?”
Elizabeth stopped.
“What?”
“The lining. Your husband used to hide cash in it when he traveled.”
Elizabeth stared at the handbag.
Then she looked at me.
“Claire, the little sewing scissors.”
I fetched them from my mother's kitchen drawer.
With trembling fingers, Elizabeth lifted the worn lining near the bottom of the purse.
A tiny row of hand stitches ran along the leather.
I'd cleaned that handbag several times.
I'd never noticed them.
Elizabeth carefully cut the thread.
Inside was a folded strip of blue fabric wrapped around a small brass key.
And a handwritten note.
Luca read it aloud.
“Elizabeth, if the boys ever disagree about the dock money, ask Margaret to show them the December ledger. Don't let them make you choose between your sons.”
Elizabeth covered her face.
My mother stared at the note.
“Giovanni gave you this?”
“He told me it was for emergencies.”
“Elizabeth,” my mother whispered, “there is no December ledger.”
Luca frowned.
“What?”
My mother looked at me.
“Claire, bring me the blue recipe book.”
I found it on the kitchen shelf.
She opened it between the pages for Christmas pudding and gingerbread.
Inside was a photograph of my grandfather sitting beside four other workers.
Underneath were handwritten names.
And a bank deposit slip.
My mother pushed it toward Luca.
“This is the only December record Dad kept.”
Luca studied the slip.
The deposit was for two million dollars.
Dated December 19, six months before Giovanni Moretti died.
The receiving account belonged to the Moretti Scholarship Trust.
Luca looked up.
“Anthony told me the fund was nearly empty when Dad died.”
My mother shook her head.
“It wasn't.”
Then she pointed at the signature authorizing the deposit.
It wasn't Giovanni's.
It was Anthony's.
Luca stared at it.
And my mother said quietly, “Your brother wasn't taking money out of that fund when your father died.”
May you like
She turned the page.
“He was putting it back.”
