Chapter 4 - The House on the Lake
The Moretti residence sat behind a low stone wall and a gate that opened when Emma gave her name to a speaker. The driveway curved through trees that still held late autumn color. The house itself was large without being ostentatious—pale stone, dark windows, a wide front door that opened before she reached it.
A woman in a simple dark dress greeted her.
“Miss Carter. Mrs. Moretti is in the sunroom. Please follow me.”
Emma followed. The interior smelled faintly of wood and something floral. The floors were quiet under her shoes.
Isabella Moretti sat in the same wheelchair, though she looked less fragile in the natural light. A knitted blanket covered her legs. Her hair was silver and carefully arranged. When she saw Emma, her face brightened.
“There you are,” she said. Her voice was softer than Emma remembered from the ballroom, but clearer. “Come sit where I can see you properly.”
Emma sat in a chair opposite her. The attendant withdrew and closed the door partway.
Isabella studied her for a moment. “You have kind eyes. I noticed that even when everything was happening.”
Emma did not know what to say to that.
“I wanted to thank you in person,” Isabella continued. “Victoria has a temper she does not always control. I have known her family for many years. That does not give her the right to raise her hand.”
“I’m glad you’re all right.”
Isabella smiled slightly. “I am better than I was that night. Vincent worries. He tries not to show it, but he does.” She adjusted the blanket. “He told me you refused his help with your employment.”
Emma felt heat rise in her face. “I didn’t want to owe anyone.”
“A reasonable instinct. Though not always a practical one.” Isabella’s gaze was steady. “My son does not offer help lightly. When he does, it is usually because he has already decided the person is worth the risk.”
Emma looked at her hands. “I’m just a waitress.”
“You were that night. You are also the person who acted when a room full of people did not.” Isabella leaned forward a fraction. “I would like to ask you something. Will you visit again? Not as a guest of my son’s. As mine. I find the afternoons long, and most of the people who come to see me want something from Vincent.”
Emma hesitated. “I work irregular hours.”
“I can work around them. One hour. Tea. Conversation. Nothing more.”
It felt strange. It also felt honest in a way the ballroom had not.
“All right,” Emma said.
Isabella’s smile deepened. “Good. Thomas will arrange the details if you prefer. Or you may simply come when you can.”
They talked for a while longer—about the weather, about books Isabella had been reading, about the lake visible through the trees beyond the windows. Emma found herself relaxing without meaning to. When she stood to leave, Isabella reached out and briefly touched her hand.
“Thank you again,” she said.
Outside, the air had turned colder. Emma walked to the bus stop at the edge of the property and rode home with the strange feeling that she had stepped into a different version of her life for an hour and then stepped back out.
May you like
Vincent was not at the house that day. She was glad. She was also, against her better judgment, a little disappointed.
