Chapter 9 — What He Did When I Wasn’t Watching

Three weeks passed without Rico asking me to dinner again.

He asked whether Thursday still worked.

He asked what brand of crayons Leo had used at Dr. Feld’s office.

He asked me to explain why a dinosaur could apparently refuse bedtime while a little boy could not.

But he did not ask about dinner.

I began to suspect patience was more effective on me than any amount of money would have been.

That did not make it easier to admit.

One afternoon, I arrived to find cardboard boxes stacked in the study.

Rico stood at the desk with Adler and a woman carrying a laptop.

They were speaking quietly.

When Rico saw me, he came into the hall and closed the door.

“You’re early.”

“Five minutes.”

“Leo’s in the kitchen.”

I glanced at the boxes.

“The review?”

“Yes.”

“How’s it going?”

His expression answered first.

“Badly.”

I shifted my bag.

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I know.”

He rested one hand against the door.

“Some things were worse than I expected. Others were exactly what I expected and hoped someone could explain differently.”

“Can they?”

“No.”

I looked at him.

There was no attempt to make it sound impressive.

No invitation to congratulate him for opening his own books.

“What happens now?”

“We keep going.”

From the kitchen, Leo called my name.

Rico stepped aside.

Before I passed him, I touched his forearm.

Briefly.

His eyes moved to my hand.

I let go.

Then I went to see which dinosaur had been accused of stealing lunch.

The changes did not happen in a clean sequence.

One company went on the market.

Another lost a manager Rico had known for years.

Moretti Logistics underwent a review that filled the study with documents and gave Rico a permanent crease between his eyebrows.

Some afternoons, he came downstairs looking as though he had argued for hours.

He still asked Leo whether he wanted to build.

Sometimes the boy said no.

Rico learned not to take that personally.

One Thursday, I heard raised voices through the study door.

I stopped in the hall.

Leo sat at the kitchen table beside Mrs. Alvarez, peeling a banana with enormous concentration.

He heard the voices too.

His hands went still.

I sat beside him.

“That’s Daddy talking.”

Leo watched the hallway.

Inside the study, something struck the desk.

I stood.

Before I reached the door, it opened.

A gray-haired man came out, red-faced.

Rico followed.

“Keep your voice down.”

The man looked at me, then toward the kitchen.

“You can’t let a child decide how business is conducted.”

Rico’s expression hardened.

“You’re standing in his home.”

“I’ve known you since—”

“Then you know where the door is.”

Dante appeared near the foyer.

He did not put a hand on the visitor.

He waited.

The man looked at Rico for another long second.

Then he left.

Rico remained beside the study.

His breathing was controlled, but only just.

Leo slid from his chair.

“Daddy mad?”

Rico looked at him.

Then he crouched.

“Yes. I’m angry about something that happened at work.”

“Me?”

“No. Nothing you did.”

“Clara?”

“No.”

Leo considered this.

“Banana?”

Rico blinked.

The boy held out the half he had peeled.

“Eat.”

Rico took it.

“Thank you.”

He sat on the kitchen floor and ate the banana while Leo stood beside him.

I leaned against the counter.

Dante caught my eye from the hall.

Neither of us smiled until Rico did.

My promotion happened in the third month.

Marco called me into the tiny office behind the service station and offered me the lead-server position.

More responsibility.

A higher hourly rate.

A schedule that involved training new staff instead of simply rescuing them during Saturday dinner.

I looked at him.

“Did Rico tell you to do this?”

Marco sighed.

“I knew you’d ask.”

“Then answer.”

“He asked me why you weren’t already doing it.”

My stomach tightened.

Marco raised both hands.

“And I told him we hadn’t had an opening.”

“Do we?”

“Melissa’s leaving next month. You know that.”

I did.

She had been accepted into a nursing program and had already asked me to cover two shifts.

Marco pushed a printed list across the desk.

“These are the duties. This is the rate. It’s the same role she has.”

I read it carefully.

“You’re offering it because you think I can do it?”

“Clara, you’ve been doing half of it without the title.”

“Then why didn’t you offer it before?”

“Because I’m cheap and you were convenient.”

I looked up.

He winced.

“That was more honest than I intended.”

I almost laughed.

“I want the duties and pay in writing.”

“They’re in front of you.”

“And I want the schedule agreed before I accept.”

“Fine.”

I took the paper.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Marco nodded.

At the doorway, I paused.

“Did he tell you what answer I had to give?”

“No.”

“Did he ask you to report back?”

“No.”

I believed Marco.

Mostly because he looked annoyed enough to be telling the truth.

That evening, I called Rico.

He answered on the second ring.

“Everything all right?”

“Did you ask Marco why I wasn’t lead server?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d watched you train two people while covering your section.”

I leaned against my kitchen counter.

“You know how I feel about interference.”

“I asked a question. I didn’t tell him to promote you.”

“You knew it would carry weight.”

Rico was quiet.

Then he said, “Yes. I did.”

The honesty took some of the force out of my anger.

“I don’t want favors disguised as work.”

“Then decide whether the work is worth doing.”

I looked at the offer on my table.

“And if I refuse?”

“You remain a server.”

“No consequences?”

“Marco complains. He does that anyway.”

I laughed reluctantly.

Rico’s voice warmed.

“You don’t have to prove you’re independent by turning down something you’ve earned.”

I closed my eyes.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Occasionally.”

He waited.

I traced the edge of the paper.

“Good night, Rico.”

“Good night, Clara.”

I accepted the position the following afternoon.

By the fourth month, Leo had started talking so much that I sometimes missed the quiet.

Not the frightened quiet.

The quiet between questions.

“Why pigeons walk funny?”

“Can trucks sleep?”

“Daddy has shoes in meeting?”

That one required clarification.

Rico had apparently joined a video call barefoot.

Leo considered this a serious failure of professionalism.

But there were still difficult afternoons.

A truck backfired outside the house, and Leo dropped his cup.

For several seconds, he could not hear us over whatever the sound had brought back.

Rico sat near him.

I found the bear.

We waited.

Later, Leo ate plain pasta and asked why thunder existed.

Nobody told him he was too old to be scared.

Nobody announced that all the progress had been lost.

Dr. Feld kept working with him.

Rico kept showing up.

I kept noticing.

One Tuesday, I arrived outside my usual schedule to drop off a book Leo had left in my bag.

Dante let me in.

“They’re in the kitchen.”

I paused near the doorway.

Leo stood on a stool at the counter.

Rico stood behind him, helping him spread flour across a board.

Mrs. Alvarez supervised from the other side.

“You said small,” Rico told his son.

Leo emptied more flour.

“Small lots.”

“That’s not a measurement.”

“It is now,” Mrs. Alvarez said.

Rico laughed.

He had flour on his shirt and a smear along his jaw.

His phone vibrated on the far counter.

He glanced at the screen.

Then he left it there.

Nobody had asked him to.

Nobody had reminded him.

I stood in the doorway holding the book.

Leo saw me first.

“Clara! Daddy messy!”

“I can see that.”

Rico turned.

His expression changed when he realized I was there.

“What are you doing here?”

“Returning evidence of your son’s dinosaur obsession.”

I held up the book.

He wiped his hands on a towel.

“Stay for a minute?”

I looked at the counter.

At the unanswered phone.

At the child who was busy correcting the shape of his father’s pasta.

“Yes,” I said.

Before I left, Rico walked me to the door.

He did not mention dinner.

He asked whether the new position was going well.

I told him the newest server had dropped a bowl of olives into a woman’s handbag.

His mouth twitched.

“Expensive handbag?”

“Very.”

“Did Marco survive?”

“Physically.”

Rico smiled.

I adjusted my bag and looked at him.

He waited, accustomed now to letting me finish whatever I was trying to say.

“There’s a diner in Queens,” I said.

His expression shifted.

“All right.”

“It has laminated menus and terrible parking.”

“An excellent recommendation.”

“I like it.”

“Then it sounds promising.”

I took a breath.

“Are you free Friday evening?”

He went very still.

I almost lost my nerve.

“Not for work,” I added.

“I understood.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Rico smiled, slowly this time.

“I can be free.”

“Check your schedule first.”

He took out his phone.

Actually checked.

Then put it away.

“Friday.”

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

I nodded.

He reached for the door, then paused.

“Clara.”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure?”

I looked at the flour still caught near his cuff.

At the phone he had ignored while teaching his son.

At the man who had finally learned to let me choose.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m sure.”