What He Wanted

On Monday morning, Elena called him Mr. Moretti.

Adrian looked up from his coffee.

She stood beside the breakfast table in her uniform, holding the tray with both hands.

"Your car will be here in twenty minutes," she said. "Rosa asked whether you'll need lunch at home."

He had kissed her goodbye at her apartment door on Saturday. On Sunday, she had sent him a photograph of Mia inspecting the remaining pizza and declaring it unsuitable for birds.

Now she was looking at the silver coffee pot instead of him.

"Elena."

Her gaze rose.

He waited until the housekeeper arranging flowers in the hall had passed.

"Have I missed something?"

"We're meeting Julian this afternoon. I didn't want to make the morning complicated."

"By using my name?"

She set the tray down.

"Can we talk later?"

He wanted to insist on now.

Instead he nodded.

At Julian's office that afternoon, she sat beside him but kept her hands in her lap.

The lawyer was older than Adrian remembered, with a cane hooked over the arm of his chair and a stubborn refusal to allow anyone to move his files for him.

He explained the old fraud, the money returned, the fund that had continued paying for repairs. Martin Vale had signed a statement years earlier. The documents supported what Daniel had written.

Then Julian opened the trust folder.

"Your father's company has no automatic right to develop these parcels," he said. "That needs to be made clear before anyone approves further plans."

Adrian studied the addresses.

"Send copies to my counsel. I'll stop the proposals while they're reviewed."

Julian nodded.

"There are personal papers too. Some Gabriel left with me, some Daniel deposited later. I'd like to organize them before our next meeting."

Elena asked for copies of her husband's records.

"All of them," she said. "Even the boring ones."

Julian's expression softened.

"Of course."

In the car afterward, Adrian lowered the partition.

"Now?" he asked.

Elena looked at him.

For a moment, he thought she would retreat into another practical answer.

Then she said, "I don't know where I fit in this."

He turned toward her.

"With Julian?"

"With you."

The traffic slowed around them.

"Saturday wasn't a mistake," she added quickly.

"Good. Because I've spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about it."

Color touched her face.

"So have I. That's part of the problem."

He waited.

She looked down at the folder on her knees.

"A few weeks ago, I cleaned your study and you barely saw me. Then Mia found a key, and suddenly my husband knew your father, and we're hearing their voices and finding letters. Everything feels close because everything is so strange."

"You think that explains what happened in your kitchen?"

"I think I need to know what happens when there's nothing left to open."

The question was fair.

He disliked that it frightened him.

"Look at me," he said.

She did.

"I wanted you before we opened the bank box. You were laughing at a drawing of my terrible hair. I wanted to make you laugh again."

Her fingers loosened on the folder.

"I like that you correct people when they get Mia's name wrong, even when you're tired. I like that you argue with me and then remember whether I've eaten. I like watching you decide you're going to say something you probably shouldn't."

She gave him a doubtful look.

"You don't always enjoy the result."

"No. But I wait for it anyway."

He moved his hand toward hers, leaving it on the seat between them.

"I want you without a letter to discuss. Without your daughter making me behave. I'd like to spend an evening finding out what annoys you when I'm doing it on purpose."

She laughed despite herself.

Then she placed her hand in his.

"That sounds ambitious."

"I have a strong work ethic."

On Wednesday, he took her to dinner.

She chose a small restaurant she had wanted to try for months. He booked a table rather than a private room, arrived without flowers large enough to require transportation, and resisted sending a car when she said she would meet him there.

None of it felt restrained when she walked through the door.

She wore a black dress beneath her coat. Her hair was tucked behind one ear. When she saw him stand, her smile was quick and unguarded.

He had never understood how people lost their train of thought in the middle of ordinary sentences.

Now the waiter asked whether he wanted to keep his drink, and Adrian had to ask him to repeat the question.

Elena noticed.

She looked pleased.

Over dinner, she refused to let him discuss the trust for more than five minutes.

He asked what she had been reading. She confessed that she sometimes skipped to the last chapter to make sure a book would not ruin her week.

"That explains the interrogation in the car," he said.

"I like to know what I'm getting into."

"And what have you concluded?"

She looked at him across the candle.

"You take longer to relax than anyone I've ever met. But it's worth waiting."

He reached for his glass because touching her across the table would not have been enough.

After dinner, they walked several blocks rather than immediately finding a car.

At a crossing, her hand slipped into his coat pocket with his.

He looked down.

"Cold?"

"Very."

He folded his fingers around hers.

She moved closer as they waited for the light.

Outside her building, neither reached for the door.

"I had a good time," she said.

"You sound surprised."

"You didn't buy any real estate. It was refreshing."

He laughed and caught her gently at the waist.

She tipped her face toward his without hesitation.

The kiss was slower than Saturday's, and somehow harder to end. Her hand slid beneath the open edge of his coat. He felt her fingers against his shirt and thought of the empty townhouse waiting for him.

When she drew back, she remained close.

"I want to see you again," she said.

It was the plainness of it that undid him.

"Tell me when."

She smiled.

"Soon."

He kissed her once more, then watched her go inside.

Halfway home, his phone lit up.

I've been smiling in the elevator like an idiot.

He read it twice before answering.

That makes two of us.