A Man for One Day

"Mister, can I borrow you for one day?"

Maria heard her daughter's voice through the open door and dropped the basket of folded linen.

A towel slid across the marble. She stepped over it, reached the doorway, and saw twelve men turn toward a little girl in a yellow dress.

Sophia stood beside Alessandro Moretti's chair. Her socks did not match. A purple crayon protruded from her fist. On the walnut table above her head lay a map, three telephones, and a handgun within reach of the man whose sleeve she was touching.

Maria's stomach contracted so violently she could scarcely breathe.

"Sophia, come here, sweetheart."

She crossed the threshold before anyone could stop her and knelt, putting her body between her daughter and the table.

"I am sorry, Mr. Moretti. My sister is sick, and the housekeeper said Sophia could stay in the laundry room while I finished. I only went upstairs for a minute."

Alessandro looked down at her. At thirty-five, he had the stillness of a man who rarely needed to repeat himself. His dark shirt was rolled to his forearms; a narrow scar disappeared beneath his watch. Maria had worked in his house for eight months and never stood this close to him.

"Please don't blame her," she added. "I will take her home."

Sophia leaned around her shoulder.

"I wasn't touching his things, Mommy. I was asking him."

Someone at the table shifted. Maria heard leather creak, then silence.

Alessandro's gaze moved to the child.

"What would you need me for?"

"We could go to the park. You could push the swing."

"Your mother can push a swing."

Sophia considered this without taking offense.

"She does, but then nobody sits beside her on the bench."

Maria closed her eyes.

The answer was so small, so unguarded, that it hurt more than any complaint Sophia might have made. Maria had thought the child noticed only the empty swing beside hers. Apparently she noticed the empty seat beside her mother too.

"We have everything we need," Maria whispered, brushing a curl from Sophia's cheek.

"I know. We could still borrow him."

A man's hand came to rest on the table. A heavy silver ring caught the light. Marco Ricci, Alessandro's right hand, was watching Sophia with an expression Maria could not read.

She recognized him. Once, years ago, he had driven Elena to her apartment. He had waited downstairs. Maria had never known what Elena told him afterward.

"Take the east entrance," Alessandro said.

Maria began to rise, gathering Sophia against her.

"I meant them."

He lifted one finger. Chairs moved back. The men left without argument, collecting their papers and phones. Marco paused at the door.

"We need an answer from Bianchi by tomorrow."

"Then he can answer you."

The door closed.

Maria remained on her knees. She could feel Sophia's heartbeat against her palm, quick and ordinary. The child's fear had not yet arrived. Maria prayed it never would.

Alessandro pushed the handgun away from the edge and out of sight.

"You can stand up, Maria."

Hearing her name unsettled her. She had assumed he did not know it.

"She won't disturb you again."

"She has asked me a question. I haven't answered it."

He pulled out the chair beside his. Sophia looked at Maria for permission. Maria wanted to refuse; instead she nodded once, because refusing him frightened her too.

Sophia climbed onto the chair, arranging her skirt carefully beneath her knees. Her hem had come down that morning. Maria had repaired it on the subway, using the little sewing kit she kept beside the emergency crackers.

Alessandro noticed the loose yellow thread. His eyes moved to Maria's hands, where a needle prick still marked her thumb.

"How old are you?" he asked Sophia.

"I'm three. I'll be four when the strawberries come."

"Her birthday is in June," Maria explained.

It was April. Almost three years and ten months since Elena had placed a newborn in her arms and promised to return before the end of the week.

Maria pressed her injured thumb into her palm.

"Does this loan include lunch?" Alessandro asked.

Sophia brightened.

"We could have ice cream."

"That doesn't sound like lunch."

"We could have two things."

His mouth changed, barely. Maria had seen men smile before hurting someone. This did not look like that, but she distrusted her own relief.

"Mr. Moretti, you don't have to entertain her. She doesn't understand how busy you are."

"I understood her perfectly."

He leaned toward Sophia, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Tomorrow morning, at seven, I will come to your door. Your mother will come with us. We'll go to the park, and afterward we will discuss this questionable lunch."

Sophia stared at him, suddenly solemn.

"Will you really come?"

Maria knew that voice. A nursery friend's father had once promised to take both girls to the aquarium. He had forgotten. Sophia had worn her shoes until bedtime.

Alessandro glanced at Maria, and she hated how much he seemed to understand from her face.

"I will really come."

Sophia held out her crayon.

"You can keep this until tomorrow. Then you won't forget."

He took it between two fingers. The paper wrapper was chewed at one end.

"I'll keep it safe."

Maria helped Sophia down. At the door, Alessandro spoke again.

"Maria, I haven't dismissed you from your job. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

She turned. His eyes held hers, and for a moment she could not find the practiced gratitude she used with employers.

"Thank you," she said at last.

His gaze dropped to the hand she held protectively around Sophia's shoulder. He looked as though he might say something else, but only nodded.

Outside, Maria collected the fallen towels. Her fingers shook so badly that the housekeeper, Mrs. Bell, took the basket from her without a word.

"Go home," the older woman said. "I'll finish these."

"I still have the guest rooms."

"They'll survive until tomorrow."

In the taxi Maria could barely afford, Sophia fell asleep with her cheek against her mother's coat. Rain gathered on the windows. Maria loosened the child's shoes, then cupped one small foot inside her hand to warm it.

She had learned to do everything quietly. Feedings in the apartment she shared with her sister. Calls to clinics during lunch breaks. Crying into a towel while Sophia slept, because there had been nights when twenty-six-year-old Maria had wanted her own mother so desperately that the wanting felt childish.

Her mother had died the year before Sophia was born. Elena had been the friend who stayed through the funeral.

That was the woman Maria had believed when she said Alessandro did not want his child.

She had shown Maria a message bearing his name. She had played a voice recording, his voice, cold and unmistakable: I don't want her here. Make sure she understands that.

Maria had not known what happened before those words. She had only known the newborn was hungry, Elena was leaving, and someone had to stay.

At home, Sophia woke just long enough to ask whether tomorrow had arrived.

"You have to sleep first, sweetheart."

"You won't go to work without me?"

Maria kissed the warm space beneath her ear.

"I won't leave you behind."

After bedtime, she lifted the loose board beneath the pantry shelf and took out Elena's wooden box. The brass key was tied to the inside of her old winter coat. She had not opened the box in months. Sometimes leaving it closed was the only way to get through a day.

Tonight she turned the key.

There was the hospital bracelet. A necklace. Elena's photograph beneath the boardwalk lights, her face turned toward a man outside the frame. And the letter asking Maria to keep Sophia away from him.

Maria touched the bracelet with one finger.

Then she closed the box again.

If he arrived tomorrow, she would watch him. She would listen carefully. She could not give Sophia back the years already gone, but she could make certain no one hurt her now.

Across the bedroom, Sophia murmured in her sleep and reached for the empty place beside her.

Maria put away the key and went to her.