Chapter 2 - The Stranger Who Asked Permission

“Excuse me, ma'am. We need to talk.”

The man speaking was one of the two strangers who had nearly frightened Rosie earlier. He stood a careful distance from us now, his hands visible at his sides. Behind him, the tall man in black remained near the Christmas display. I recognized his face before I understood why he was waiting.

I pulled Rosie closer. “About what?”

“My employer saw your daughter's drawing. He would like a word with you, if that's all right.”

Rosie looked up from the bus ticket. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, sweetheart.” I answered before the stranger could. Whatever these men wanted, I would not let my child believe she had caused trouble by wanting a pair of shoes.

The stranger's expression shifted. “No one is in trouble. I'm Tomas. I'm sorry my colleague spoke sharply to you earlier.”

It was an apology, but I could still see two men positioned where they could watch the entrance. They were not ordinary shoppers. I had spent enough of my life depending on other people's goodwill to know that an offer could become a demand when the person making it had power.

“You can tell your employer we appreciate his concern,” I said. “But we need to go.”

Tomas nodded, although his eyes moved briefly toward the man behind him. I expected an argument. Instead, the stranger in black approached on his own, slowly enough that Rosie could see him coming.

“We met earlier,” he said. “I didn't introduce myself. Dominic Moretti.”

I knew that name. Everyone in New York had heard it, even people like me who had no reason to move in his world. Newspapers connected him to hotels, properties, shipping companies, and a family business people discussed in lowered voices. He looked nothing like the man I'd imagined from those stories. He looked tired, and he was studying Rosie rather than expecting me to be impressed.

“I'm not asking you to explain your life to me,” he said. “I saw the drawing. I wondered whether I could buy the shoes for her.”

Rosie's fingers tightened around mine. For one helpless second, I wanted to say yes. Thirty-eight dollars was such a small amount to him. To me, it meant deciding what else could wait. Then I saw my daughter looking at my face for permission, and I remembered how carefully I had taught her not to expect strangers to solve our problems.

“That's generous,” I said. “But I don't want her to think she has to be pitied to receive something nice.”

Dominic glanced at the sketch. “I don't pity her.”

“Then please don't treat her like a problem you can fix in a department store.”

Tomas shifted behind him. Dominic did not. He took a moment before answering. “You're right. I made an assumption.”

Rosie raised her bus ticket. “I drew the buckles wrong.”

Dominic leaned just enough to see the picture without taking it from her. “They look like the shoes to me.”

“They're red,” she explained. “I used my pencil, so you have to imagine that part.”

He smiled, the same unexpected smile I'd seen earlier when she curtsied. “I can imagine it.”

For a moment, the three of us stood together like ordinary people beside an ordinary window. Then Dominic asked the question I hadn't expected. “Do you have work waiting? I don't want to keep you.”

“I work at Novak's Bakery,” I said. “I have an early shift tomorrow.”

He looked at my hands. The skin around my knuckles was rough despite the cold-weather cream I used whenever I could afford it. I folded them into my sleeves.

“Do you work there full-time?” he asked.

“Most weeks, nearly.”

He hesitated. “Forgive me. You don't have to answer this. Is the pay enough?”

I nearly laughed. “If it were enough, we'd probably be buying the shoes.”

The words embarrassed me the moment I said them. I had spent four years trying not to reveal how close to the edge our life had become. But Dominic didn't offer money again. He looked toward Tomas and said, “Give us a minute.”

When Tomas stepped back, Dominic lowered his voice. “I own a company that manages commercial properties around this city. Sometimes I learn things about those properties too late. I would like to know whether people are being treated fairly. That's separate from any gift to your daughter.”

“People?” I repeated.

“Tenants. Workers. Anyone whose livelihood depends on a building we control.”

I didn't understand why he was telling me this. I understood even less when he asked for the bakery's street address. I gave it only after he explained that I could refuse, and that he would not speak to my employer about me without asking first.

“Don't tell him I complained,” I said immediately. “I need my job.”

“I won't,” he promised. “And you haven't complained. You answered a question I asked.”

Before we parted, I agreed that Tomas could telephone me once about the property inquiry and gave him my number for that purpose. Rosie tugged at my sleeve. “Mommy, can we keep the drawing?”

“Of course.”

She folded the ticket carefully and slipped it back into her pocket. Dominic watched her do it, then stepped aside. He was letting us leave. I hadn't believed that would be so easy.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “why did you stop?”

“Because I thought I understood what I was looking at,” he replied. “And then you told me I didn't.”

That wasn't a complete answer. But it sounded more truthful than a speech about changing our lives.

We rode the bus home. Rosie talked about the chandeliers and the shoes, and I tried to listen without thinking about the man in black. When we reached our apartment, I made her dinner and set out her clothes for the morning. She placed the bus ticket beside her bed where she could see it.

After she fell asleep, I checked the envelope from Novak's Bakery that I'd brought home on Friday. It contained my pay statement. One hundred forty-eight dollars before taxes, as usual. I held it beneath the kitchen light, thinking of the hours I had worked and the afternoons I had stayed late to clean ovens after the counter closed. I had told myself the arrangement was temporary. Every week, temporary became another week.

At Bergman's, Dominic Moretti had asked for the bakery's address. I didn't know whether that meant anything would happen. I hoped it meant nothing. Men like him could afford mistakes. I could not.

My phone rang shortly after nine. It was Mr. Novak. I answered with a hand over the receiver so I wouldn't wake Rosie.

“Someone called asking who manages the lease on my building,” he said without greeting me. “Do you know anything about that?”

I stared at the pay envelope on the table. Dominic had promised not to speak to my employer about me. He hadn't promised that no one would make a routine inquiry about a building. Still, the fear arrived immediately.

“Why would I know?” I asked.

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Mr. Novak was quiet. Then he said, “Because I can't afford anyone asking questions right now.”

He hung up before I could ask what he meant. I stayed at the kitchen table, listening to the quiet apartment, wondering what kind of question could frighten the owner of a bakery more than the possibility of losing an employee.