The Empty Chair

Two mornings later, I found a teddy bear sitting in my usual breakfast chair.

He faced a plate containing three pieces of toast and what appeared to be a single blueberry.

Zoe stood beside him in socks that had twisted around her heels. A child-sized butter knife lay abandoned on the table.

“He’s having breakfast,” she explained.

“I can see that.”

“You sit there.”

She pointed at the chair beside Hannah.

Hannah was in a soft green sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. Without the severe knot she wore for work, she looked younger. More rested, too, although lifting the teapot had left her hand trembling.

“Mrs. Bell said we could use the little dining room,” she said. “I can take her back upstairs if you need it.”

I pulled out the indicated chair.

“Apparently I’ve been invited.”

Zoe pushed a plate toward me. One piece of toast had been buttered so thoroughly it shone. Another had no butter at all.

“I did yours.”

“Thank you.”

Hannah reached for the teapot again. I took it before she could lift it.

“I can pour tea, Mr. Romano.”

“I believe you.”

She watched me fill her cup.

“Then why are you looking so pleased with yourself?”

I nearly spilled it.

Zoe laughed because her mother laughed. I set the pot down with more care than necessary.

“For a woman who couldn’t stand yesterday, you’ve recovered a dangerous amount of confidence.”

“I’m sitting down. It helps.”

Mrs. Bell brought eggs, took one look at the occupied chair, and silently moved the bear’s blueberry out of his reach.

Zoe objected.

“He doesn’t eat real food,” Hannah reminded her.

“He might.”

“Then he can ask.”

Zoe leaned close to the bear, listened, and announced, “He wants my milk.”

“Remarkable,” I said. “So do you.”

She grinned at me over the cup.

For fifteen minutes, nobody asked me about money, territory, or the men waiting for my signature. I ate cold toast while a three-year-old explained that her sock was inside out and therefore entirely unusable.

When Hannah stood to fetch a clean spoon, she went pale.

I was on my feet before she reached the sideboard.

“Sit.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Please,” I added.

She sat.

I found the spoon. Zoe rejected it because it had no flowers on the handle.

“There’s another one in the drawer,” Hannah said.

“This one works.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And we can spend twenty minutes establishing that, or you can open the drawer.”

I opened the drawer.

Zoe accepted the flowered spoon with a grateful sigh, as though I had finally understood a basic principle of civilization.

After breakfast, Hannah tried to gather the plates. Mrs. Bell took them out of her hands.

“You can supervise from the couch.”

“I’ve been supervising from bed for two days.”

“And doing it very well.”

Zoe wanted a story. Hannah’s voice was still rough, so I took the book she offered.

It concerned a rabbit who lost his boots.

On the second page, I skipped a sentence that seemed unnecessary.

Zoe slapped her hand on the illustration.

“You missed him.”

“Who?”

“The frog says hello.”

I looked at the print.

The frog did, in fact, say hello.

I read the sentence.

“Now again,” she said when I reached the end.

“He found the boots. You know what happens.”

“Yes.”

She waited.

From the other end of the couch, Hannah covered her mouth with her hand.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“More than I should.”

I read the book again, including the frog.

By the third reading, Zoe’s head had sunk against my arm. Hannah reached across to move a curl from her daughter’s mouth. Her wrist brushed mine.

Neither of us moved immediately.

There was nothing calculated about her. No careful performance for the man who owned the house. She was tired and warm from the sun through the window, and she smelled faintly of orange soap.

I found myself looking at her mouth.

Then she lifted her eyes, and I knew she had noticed.

I closed the book.

“Does she always request the same thing three times?”

“Only when three times works.”

“How many times have you read this?”

“I stopped counting in February.”

That afternoon Julian found me in my study with the rabbit book on my desk.

He looked at it, then at me.

“Difficult negotiations?”

“The other party refused to compromise.”

“That sounds familiar.”

I threw a pen at him. He caught it.

We spent an hour reviewing the intrusion. The copied credentials had originated through a system Victor’s office used. That made him a person with questions to answer, not yet proof of who had paid the intruder.

I wanted certainty. Instead I had a household that needed protecting and a lawyer who had smiled at my mother’s funeral.

At seven, I went upstairs with the medication Patel had arranged.

Hannah met me outside the apartment. Zoe was already asleep.

“You didn’t have to bring it yourself.”

“I was coming up.”

She glanced at the staircase behind me. My rooms were in the opposite wing.

“Of course.”

I handed over the bag. As she took it, she noticed a black mark on my cuff.

“Hold still.”

She fetched a damp cloth and rubbed at the cotton. Her fingers wrapped lightly around my wrist.

“It’s from the other night,” I said.

“I’m afraid that shirt might be ruined.”

“I own others.”

Her thumb rested against the inside of my wrist. I could feel each small movement through the cloth.

Then she let go.

“Mr. Romano.”

Her voice had changed. I looked up.

“She asked for you after her nap.”

“I was working.”

“I know.”

She folded the cloth.

“She doesn’t understand your schedule. If you tell her you’ll come, she’ll wait.”

I looked toward the quiet bedroom.

“I won’t promise unless I mean it.”

“Please be sure.”

I thought of the empty chair she had saved for me that morning.

“I will.”