How to Read a Rabbit

The storage company required paperwork.

That was reassuring in theory and deeply irritating in practice.

Marco found the account still active. The yearly fee had continued through an old household account because Isabella's executor had kept several archival expenses running after her death.

"I assumed it held tax records," he said.

Alessandro looked at him.

Marco spread his hands. "You dislike surprises. I preserved your paperwork."

The manager explained what she needed from the estate representative before she could arrange access. Alessandro made the calls himself. I found my mother's death certificate in the folder I kept beneath our bed.

Then we waited.

For the first two days, I tried to behave as if nothing had changed.

I worked with Teresa, answered delivery calls, and made sure Sophie reached preschool with both shoes on the correct feet.

On Wednesday afternoon, her preschool closed early for staff training.

By three o'clock, she had colored every page I gave her and decided my employer needed supervising.

I found her standing beside his desk with three books.

"I'm bored," she told him.

Alessandro looked up from his laptop.

"That's unfortunate."

"You can help."

"I'm working."

"Mommy's working, too."

I stopped in the doorway with a basket of clean napkins.

He saw me. His gaze dropped to the books.

"Ask Marco."

"He does the voices wrong."

"I am standing right here," Marco said from the corridor.

Sophie ignored him and opened the first book.

"This rabbit doesn't want to go to bed."

"I sympathize with her mother," Alessandro said.

"You haven't read it."

She looked so offended that I set the basket down before I could laugh into it.

"Sophie, he really does have work. You can sit with me."

She lowered the book.

"But I wanted him."

Alessandro watched her face for a moment.

Then he closed his laptop.

"One book."

"There are three."

"I can count."

She climbed onto the sofa before negotiations could deteriorate.

He sat at the opposite end, holding the book as though someone had handed him an unfamiliar contract.

"The rabbit said she was not tired," he began.

Sophie frowned.

"She sounds tired."

"Perhaps she is lying."

"You're supposed to be her."

He looked at me.

I folded a napkin with tremendous care.

"You could try a higher voice," I suggested.

Marco leaned against the doorframe, looking delighted.

Alessandro's eyes narrowed.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"I cleared my schedule," Marco said.

The next attempt at the rabbit's voice was so bad that Sophie buried her face in Button's head.

"You sound like the big bad wolf."

I lost the fight and laughed.

Alessandro looked up.

I pressed my lips together, too late.

His expression changed as he watched me. Not softened exactly. Focused.

Then he looked back at Sophie.

"The wolf is available. The rabbit may require training."

"I'll teach you," she said generously.

He read all three books.

I stayed in the doorway longer than the napkins required.

That evening, Teresa sent me to the library to put away a stack of invoices. Alessandro was at the window, speaking on his phone.

I should have left the folder and gone.

Instead I waited until he ended the call.

"Thank you for this afternoon."

"Your daughter is a demanding instructor."

"She said you're improving."

"High praise."

I placed the invoices on the table.

"You didn't have to read the other two."

"I wanted to know whether the rabbit ever went to sleep."

"And?"

"Eventually. Her mother has my respect."

I smiled.

He leaned against the windowsill. With the overhead lights off and the last of the daylight behind him, he looked less like an employer waiting for a report and more like a man I might have met somewhere else.

Somewhere I would have allowed myself to notice him.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"I was going to make something upstairs."

"When?"

"After I finish these."

"Clara."

I glanced down. My hands were still sorting papers that were already in order.

"You sound like Teresa."

"Then you should listen."

There was a small table near the fireplace. Two covered plates stood on it.

"The kitchen made too much," he said.

I lifted one lid.

Chicken, roasted potatoes, green beans with lemon.

The meal I had told Teresa was my favorite on my second day.

"Did the kitchen also accidentally set two places?"

He pulled out a chair.

"It is an unusually capable kitchen."

I sat.

At first we discussed Sophie and the paperwork. Then he asked about the house where I had grown up, and I told him about the kitchen window that stuck every winter and my mother's disastrous attempt to grow tomatoes indoors.

"She put them in my bedroom," I said. "For the light. I woke up one morning with a leaf against my face."

He smiled properly then.

It changed him so much that I forgot the end of the story.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I moved the plants."

"I meant just now."

I looked down at my plate.

"Nothing."

He let me have the lie.

Before I left, he handed me a small paper bag.

"For your room."

Inside were two blueberry muffins.

I looked at him.

"One for you," he said. "One for the woman who works for the kitchen and apparently forgets she is entitled to eat."

"She's going to be unbearable if you keep feeding her."

"She already argues with me. I doubt a muffin will make matters worse."

I carried the bag upstairs with a ridiculous warmth behind my ribs.

The call from the storage company came the next morning.

Access had been arranged.

Alessandro offered to send Marco.

"I want you to come," I said.

He looked up from his coffee.

"If you can."

"I can."

We left Sophie with Teresa and drove through familiar streets to a low brick building behind a hardware store.

Inside, the corridor smelled of concrete and cardboard.

Unit 214 held three boxes.

No hidden fortune. No furniture. Just books, photographs, and a sealed carton with my mother's name written on an envelope.

I sat on the floor to open it.

Alessandro crouched beside me without a word about his expensive trousers.

The letter inside was dated several months before Isabella died.

She had gathered their mother's photographs, family records, and everything she thought Margaret might someday want to see.

Then the letter changed.

There is something else, Isabella had written. Something I only learned after we met.

I read the next sentence twice.

Alessandro noticed.

"What is it?"

I turned the page toward him.

Margaret, there were three of us.

Below it was a name.

Daniel.

Our mother's youngest child. Our brother.

I stared at the box between us.

Somewhere, there might still be a person alive who belonged to the family my mother had been afraid to find.