Chapter 2 - The Things She Said My Mother Didn't Want
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“How many other times have you told me my mother asked for something she never asked for?”
Luca Moretti's question made the entire sitting room go silent.
Isabella stood beside the fireplace in her red silk dress, her diamond earrings trembling slightly as she turned toward him.
“Luca, darling, you're making this unnecessarily dramatic.”
“Answer me.”
She gave a short laugh.
“Your mother has been emotional lately. Sometimes she says things and doesn't remember saying them.”
Teresa's grip tightened around my hand.
I was kneeling beside her wheelchair, still wearing my black-and-white maid's uniform.
My name was Emma Collins.
I was twenty-four years old.
And I had been working in the Moretti mansion for exactly seven weeks.
Seven weeks was long enough to learn that nobody argued with Isabella Bellini.
Not the cooks.
Not the gardeners.
Not even Mrs. Romano, the head housekeeper who had served the Moretti family for more than thirty years.
But it was also long enough to learn something else.
Teresa Moretti wasn't confused.
She was frightened.
And there was a difference.
Luca moved closer to his mother.
“Ma, has Isabella taken anything else out of your room?”
Teresa looked down.
For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer.
Then she whispered, “Your father's watch.”
Luca went still.
“What?”
“The gold one. The watch he wore on our anniversary.”
Isabella rolled her eyes.
“Oh, for heaven's sake. That old thing was broken.”
Teresa looked up sharply.
“It wasn't broken.”
“It hadn't worked in years.”
“I had it repaired last Christmas.”
Luca turned toward Isabella.
“Where is it?”
She hesitated.
“In storage.”
“Which storage?”
“The household storage room.”
Luca glanced at me.
“Emma, have you seen my father's watch?”
I swallowed.
“No, sir.”
Isabella's eyes flashed.
“Of course she hasn't. She's only been here a few weeks.”
Luca ignored her.
“Ma, anything else?”
Teresa's eyes filled with tears.
“My letters.”
My stomach tightened.
I remembered something.
Three mornings earlier, I'd entered Teresa's room with fresh towels.
Isabella had been standing beside the writing desk.
A stack of letters lay in her hands.
When she noticed me, she'd quickly put them into a drawer.
At the time, I hadn't thought much about it.
Now I did.
“What letters?” Luca asked.
Teresa swallowed.
“The ones your father wrote while he was away.”
Luca's face changed.
I knew the story.
Everyone in the mansion did.
Giovanni Moretti had traveled frequently during the early years of his marriage.
Whenever he was away, he wrote Teresa handwritten letters.
She had kept every one.
Fifty-eight letters.
Tied with a blue ribbon.
They were among her most treasured possessions.
“Where are they?” Luca asked.
Teresa looked toward Isabella.
“She said keeping them was unhealthy.”
Isabella lifted her chin.
“I said dwelling on grief isn't healthy.”
“My husband died eleven years ago,” Teresa replied. “I am allowed to remember him.”
Luca's expression hardened.
“Where are the letters?”
Isabella crossed her arms.
“Honestly, Luca, I'm not sure.”
“You just said you were helping her organize.”
“I was.”
“Then you should know where you put them.”
For the first time, Isabella seemed nervous.
I looked toward Teresa.
Her eyes were fixed on the fireplace.
She wasn't watching Isabella anymore.
She was staring at the wedding photograph.
And something about her expression made my chest ache.
I gently squeezed her hand.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
She looked at me.
“Would you like some water?”
She shook her head.
Then whispered, “He promised.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
“Giovanni.”
Luca knelt beside her.
“What did Dad promise?”
Teresa looked at her son.
Her lips trembled.
“He promised nobody would ever take my memories away.”
The words seemed to strike Luca physically.
He lowered his head.
Then he stood.
“Isabella.”
She looked up.
“Find the watch. Find the letters. And put everything back exactly where my mother wants it.”
Her expression hardened.
“You can't seriously expect me to search the entire house over some sentimental junk.”
Nobody moved.
Then Luca spoke.
“Don't ever call my father's things junk again.”
The room went completely silent.
Isabella stared at him.
Then she looked at me.
“And I suppose this little maid started the whole thing.”
I felt my cheeks burn.
Before I could answer, Teresa spoke.
“Emma found my wedding picture in the trash.”
Luca turned toward me.
“In the trash?”
I nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Not in a storage box?”
“No.”
His eyes moved to Isabella.
She suddenly looked very pale.
Luca took a slow breath.
“Leave us.”
Isabella blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I want to speak with my mother.”
“Luca—”
“Alone.”
For a moment, I thought she would refuse.
Then she turned sharply and walked out.
The door closed behind her.
I immediately stood.
“I'll leave too, sir.”
But Teresa caught my wrist.
“Stay, Emma.”
I hesitated.
Luca looked at his mother.
Then nodded.
“Stay.”
Teresa looked between us.
“I need to tell you something.”
Her voice was barely audible.
Luca leaned closer.
“What is it, Ma?”
She glanced toward the door.
Then whispered, “Isabella isn't throwing away your father's things because they're old.”
My stomach tightened.
Luca frowned.
“Then why?”
Teresa reached beneath her blanket and removed a folded piece of paper.
Her fingers trembled as she handed it to him.
“I found this in her room yesterday.”
Luca opened it.
His expression changed immediately.
“What is this?”
Teresa looked toward the wedding photograph.
“It's a list.”
I leaned closer.
Written on the page were several items.
Giovanni's gold watch.
The wedding photograph.
The anniversary letters.
A silver cigarette case.
And a leather-bound diary.
Beside each item was a date.
And beside the diary were three words.
Still not found.
Luca stared at the paper.
Then slowly looked toward the fireplace.
“Ma,” he asked, “what was in Dad's diary?”
Teresa's face drained of color.
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
She shook her head.
“Your father made me promise never to open it unless something happened to him.”
Luca stared.
“But Dad died eleven years ago.”
Teresa's eyes filled with tears.
“I know.”
May you like
Then she whispered something that made the hair rise on my arms.
“And I opened it last month.”
