Chapter 10 - Anything Warm

Four Christmases later, I had more than eighteen dollars in my bank account.

That sounds like a small sentence.

It did not feel small.

Hanover Community Dining had three locations.

I no longer waited tables unless we were short staffed, which happened often enough that I kept an apron in my office.

Chloe was ten.

She had opinions about everything.

Music.

Shoes.

Homework.

My driving.

Tony's coffee.

Especially Tony's coffee.

"It's bitter."

Tony looked offended.

"You're ten."

"Exactly. I have time to develop standards."

Mrs. Moretti laughed so hard she had to sit down.

It was Christmas Eve.

Hanover Street was full.

Not with paying customers.

With anyone who needed somewhere warm to go.

Families.

Older people.

College students who couldn't travel home.

A nurse between shifts.

Two firefighters.

Three men from a shelter down the block.

Nobody had to explain why they were there.

That was the rule.

A man in a Santa hat washed dishes beside a corporate lawyer.

A woman who had once slept in her car was now our assistant manager.

A teenager from our training program ran the dessert station like a military operation.

I stood in the center of it and thought about the first Christmas Eve.

The empty restaurant.

The mop.

The booth.

Chloe whispering that we had no food.

Sometimes your life changes with a thunderclap.

Sometimes it changes because a hungry child says the truth too loudly.

Tony came up behind me.

"He's late."

I checked the clock.

"He was released this morning."

"I know."

"He may need time."

"He said six."

"People who spend four years being told when to wake up may enjoy being late."

Tony grunted.

"He's still James."

"Exactly."

Chloe appeared wearing a red apron.

"Is he coming?"

"Yes."

"You don't know that."

"I know."

"How?"

"Because he promised Grandma."

Mrs. Moretti called from across the room, "And he fears me."

Tony nodded.

"That is compelling evidence."

The front door opened.

Cold air entered first.

Then James.

Nobody recognized him for half a second.

He was thinner.

More gray in his hair.

No suit.

No bodyguards.

A dark coat.

A small duffel bag.

And a look on his face like he had forgotten how to enter a room where nobody was afraid of him.

Chloe saw him.

She froze.

James looked at her.

"Hey."

She ran.

He barely had time to drop the bag before she hit him.

He held her.

For a long time.

When she pulled back, she stared at him.

"You're old."

Tony made a choking noise.

James looked offended.

"Hello to you too."

"You have gray hair."

"So does your grandmother."

Mrs. Moretti shouted, "Do not involve me."

Chloe hugged him again.

"I missed you."

His face changed.

"I missed you too."

Mrs. Moretti reached him next.

She slapped his arm.

Then kissed him.

Then slapped his other arm.

"Four years."

"Ma."

"Four years I had to visit that terrible place."

"You didn't have to come every month."

She looked scandalized.

"Of course I did."

James kissed her forehead.

"I know."

Tony stood several feet away.

James looked at him.

Tony crossed his arms.

"Don't make this strange."

James smiled.

Then they hugged.

Finally, James looked at me.

The room became louder and quieter at the same time.

People laughed around us.

Plates clattered.

Christmas music played from a cheap speaker.

But I heard none of it.

He walked toward me.

"Grace."

"James."

"You changed the sign."

I looked outside.

HANOVER TABLE.

The word Community had been removed the year before.

"What was wrong with the old one?" he asked.

"Too long."

"You criticized my font."

"Your font was ugly."

"It was classic."

"It was criminal."

He laughed.

I smiled.

Then neither of us knew what to do.

Four years of letters sat between us.

Letters about Chloe.

About Daniel.

About prison.

About guilt.

About ordinary things.

I had told him when the dishwasher broke.

He had told me when he learned to make bread with a plastic bowl and terrible yeast.

He knew I had dated someone for three months and ended it because neither of us cared enough.

I knew he had stopped asking his lawyer to shorten his sentence after the first year because, as he wrote, "I spent too much of my life believing consequences were for other people."

He looked at me.

"You look good."

"So do you."

"That's generous."

"I am running a hospitality business."

"Professional lying."

"Exactly."

He looked around.

"This is bigger."

"Three locations."

"Tony told me."

"Then why are you surprised?"

"Tony complains so much I assumed everything was failing."

Tony shouted, "I can hear you."

James called back, "Good."

I crossed my arms.

"What are you doing now?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

He looked toward the kitchen.

"Is the stove free?"

I stared at him.

"You were released from prison this morning."

"Yes."

"And you want to cook."

"I haven't had a real kitchen in four years."

"That is not true."

"Nothing in federal custody counts as a real kitchen."

Chloe appeared beside him.

"Can you still make chicken?"

James looked offended again.

"Of course."

"Can you still burn pancakes?"

He pointed at her.

"That happened once."

"It is family history now."

I looked at him.

"Family?"

Chloe shrugged.

"Grandma Moretti says I am honorary Italian."

Mrs. Moretti shouted, "Not honorary."

James closed his eyes.

"Of course she does."

Then he rolled up his sleeves.

Exactly as he had four years earlier.

Something caught in my throat.

He noticed.

"Grace?"

"I'm fine."

Chloe looked at him.

James looked at her.

Together they said, "No, you're not."

I laughed.

"Both of you are impossible."

James softened.

"Do you want me to stop?"

I knew what he was really asking.

Not about cooking.

About being here.

About stepping into the life we had built while he was gone.

About whether four years of truth and consequence had bought him a place at the edge of the table.

I looked at the kitchen.

At Chloe.

At Mrs. Moretti ordering volunteers around.

At Tony pretending not to listen.

At the dining room filled with people who did not need to prove they deserved dinner.

Then I looked at James.

"No."

He waited.

I said, "Don't stop."

He nodded once.

Then he went into the kitchen.

For the next two hours, the most feared man Boston had once whispered about chopped onions.

Nobody cared.

A little boy asked him for extra potatoes.

James gave him extra potatoes.

An elderly woman complained the chicken needed salt.

James thanked her.

Tony nearly fell over laughing.

At eight, the last official dinner seating ended.

At eight-fifteen, we made one table from six smaller ones.

Mrs. Moretti sat at the head.

Tony sat beside her.

Chloe insisted James sit across from me.

"Why?" I asked.

"Symmetry."

"You don't know what that means."

"I absolutely do."

James said, "She does."

"Stop helping."

"Four years and you still say that."

We filled the table.

Staff.

Volunteers.

Friends.

People who had no other table that night.

James placed the final platter in the center.

Roasted chicken.

Mashed potatoes.

Green beans.

Glazed carrots.

Warm bread.

I stared at it.

He noticed.

"Too obvious?"

"Extremely."

Chloe looked between us.

"What?"

I said, "This is what he made that first night."

She smiled.

"I know."

"You were six."

"I remember."

James sat.

Chloe looked at him.

"Do you remember what I said?"

He thought.

"You called me scary."

"Before that."

"You asked if I was a chef."

"After that."

He looked at me.

I knew.

His face changed.

Chloe said, "You asked my favorite Christmas dinner."

James nodded slowly.

"And what did you say?"

She smiled.

"Anything warm."

The table went quiet.

Chloe looked around.

"We have a lot more than that now."

I reached for her hand.

"Yes."

James looked down at his plate.

Mrs. Moretti said, "Then eat before it gets cold."

Everyone laughed.

We ate.

Later, after the volunteers left and Tony took Mrs. Moretti home, Chloe fell asleep in the same corner booth where she sometimes did homework.

Not because I couldn't afford childcare.

Because she had refused to leave.

James stood beside the booth.

"She still sleeps in restaurants."

"Apparently."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Only if she starts working here."

"Child labor laws."

"Look at you, respecting laws."

He gave me a tired smile.

"I've become boring."

"No."

I turned off half the dining room lights.

Outside, snow had begun to fall.

James looked through the window.

"Daniel would have liked this place."

I stood beside him.

"I think so."

"Do you still get angry at him?"

"Yes."

"Good."

I smiled.

"You always say that."

"Because people think forgiveness means deleting anger."

"What does it mean?"

He thought.

"Maybe letting anger stop driving."

I looked at him.

"Prison made you philosophical."

"Prison made me read."

"Same thing."

He laughed quietly.

Then he reached into his coat.

He pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper.

My chest tightened.

"What is that?"

"Not money."

"Good start."

"Not jewelry."

"Better."

He handed it to me.

Inside was a small metal plate.

Old.

Scratched.

Stamped M7.

I stared at it.

"Where did you get this?"

"The pier was demolished last year."

"I know."

"Tony had someone save the locker plate."

I ran my thumb over the number.

James continued.

"I thought you might want it."

I swallowed.

"I don't know if I do."

"Then throw it away."

I looked at him.

"You won't be offended?"

"It's metal."

"It means more than metal."

"Only if you decide it does."

I looked toward Chloe.

Then at the dining room.

Then back at M7.

For years, that number had meant the place Daniel hid the truth.

The place Anthony tried to protect his brother.

The place Frank's lies began to collapse.

But it had also been a door.

A terrible door.

Still a door.

I placed the plate on the counter.

"I'll keep it."

James nodded.

"For Daniel?"

"For me."

His eyes softened.

"Better."

We stood in silence.

Then I asked, "What happens tomorrow?"

He looked surprised.

"I find an apartment."

"Your mother will hate that."

"She has already prepared my old room."

"Then why find an apartment?"

"Survival."

I laughed.

"And work?"

"Nobody is going to hire me."

"That is probably true."

"Thank you."

"You have a criminal record, a terrifying reputation, and no recent references."

"I have references."

"Tony does not count."

"He absolutely counts."

"No."

James looked around the restaurant.

"Do you need a cook?"

I stared at him.

"Are you asking me for a job?"

"I believe that's how employment works."

"The James Moretti who once owned half the harbor is asking me for a kitchen shift?"

"Formerly alleged half."

"You pled guilty."

"Details."

I smiled.

"Can you show up on time?"

"Usually."

"Can you take criticism?"

"No."

"Problem."

"I can pretend."

"Worse."

He glanced at the booth.

"Does the job include childcare?"

"Sometimes."

"Paid sick days?"

"Yes."

"Schedules two weeks ahead?"

"Yes."

"No firing on Christmas Eve?"

"Written into the handbook."

He nodded solemnly.

"Sounds legitimate."

"It is."

"That will be new."

I held out my hand.

"One interview."

He looked at it.

Then at me.

"One interview."

He took my hand.

Neither of us let go immediately.

No music swelled.

No miracle erased what had happened.

Daniel was still dead.

Anthony was still dead.

Sofia and Lily were still gone.

Four years had still been four years.

Frank DeLuca was still serving a sentence that would likely keep him in prison for the rest of his life.

Raymond Cole had been convicted after testifying to his role in Daniel's staged crash.

Carlo had testified too and received a reduced sentence.

Tony still made terrible coffee.

Mrs. Moretti still criticized everyone's sauce.

Chloe still left socks everywhere.

And James Moretti was not suddenly innocent because he had served time.

But he was standing in a restaurant on Christmas Eve with a silver star sticker on the phone case Chloe had given him.

He had come back.

Not clean.

Not absolved.

Different.

Maybe that was all people could honestly promise.

I looked at our joined hands.

Then at him.

"Kitchen starts at six tomorrow."

His eyebrows rose.

"Christmas morning?"

"We serve breakfast."

"You are a cruel employer."

"I learned from unpleasant people."

He smiled.

Behind us, Chloe stirred.

"Mommy?"

I let go of James's hand and went to her.

"I'm here, baby."

She opened one eye.

"Can we stay here tonight?"

The question stopped me.

Four years earlier, she had asked because the restaurant was warm and our apartment was cold and nearly empty.

Now our home was ten minutes away.

The refrigerator was full.

Her bedroom had too many books and a lamp she had chosen herself.

We had somewhere to go.

I brushed her hair back.

"We can stay a little longer."

She smiled sleepily.

"Good."

James brought over his coat.

The same kind of dark wool coat he had wrapped around her that first Christmas, though this one was new.

He placed it over her.

Chloe murmured, "Thanks."

He sat in the booth across from us.

Outside, snow covered Hanover Street.

Inside, the last lights stayed on.

There was food in the kitchen.

There was coffee no one should drink.

There were chairs enough for whoever came through the door.

And for the first time in years, Christmas did not feel like something I had survived.

It felt like a table.

Warm.

Crowded.

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Imperfect.

Ours.