Chapter 9 - The Final Seating Plan
By September, Bellafior had undergone its final transformation. The old mezzanine office had been converted into a private dining suite with a single, large round table made of reclaimed oak from the old shipping yards.
Mara stood by the glass window, looking down at the main room where the dinner crowd was beginning to thin out. She was no longer wearing the white uniform shirt; she wore a soft cashmere sweater, her fingers turning a new, silver-plated key chain over in her palm.
The door to the suite opened, and Nico walked in, carrying a large leather folder containing the new layout designs for the North Side terminals.
“The Vails have sold their concrete plants, Mara,” he said, setting the folder on the oak table. “The father is moving to Florida next week, and the girl has taken a position with an art gallery in New York. They won't be returning to Chicago.”
Mara didn't look at the files. She walked over to the table and picked up a single, ivory place card that had been set beside the center vase of white roses.
The name on the card was written in her own careful, elegant ink: Mara Bellandi.
“Mr. Pell says the spelling is correct,” she said, her voice dropping into a soft, teasing tone that she only used when they were alone in the dark.
Nico walked behind her, his large arms coming down around her waist, pulling her back against his chest until she could feel the heavy, dependable rhythm of his heart through his linen shirt. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin behind her ear.
“Pell is an idiot,” Nico murmured. “But he knows how to follow a plan.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box. He didn't open it with a speech; he simply laid it on the table beside her new place card. Inside was a single, flawless emerald ring, set in a band of old, hand-hammered gold that looked like it had been carved from the same stone as his mother’s estate.
“My mother said green is the color of the trees that don't die in the winter, Mara,” Nico whispered, his voice rough with an emotion he had hidden for forty years. “She said you’re the only woman in this city who knows how to keep the frost out of the house.”
May you like
Mara turned around in his arms, her hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, her green eyes matching the stone in the box with a fierce, independent light that had never been bought and would never be sold.
“The frost is gone, Nico,” she said, her lips meeting his in a long, slow kiss that carried the sweetness of the figs, the strength of the old stone, and the absolute finality of a love that had rewritten the ledger of Federal Hill.
