Chapter 10 - A New Aviary
Six months later, the limestone cranes at the entrance of the Ferrante estate were covered in the small, bright green leaves of a Chicago May. The lake was no longer grey; it was a deep, brilliant blue that looked like the silk of a dress under a high, clean sun.
The diner uniform was gone, sitting at the bottom of a dresser drawer in the east wing next to Gabi’s old aprons.
We were sitting on the terrace—Enzo, Dante, and me. A long table had been set with Gabi’s fresh brioche and a silver pot of coffee that didn't taste like Sal’s at all.
Enzo was holding a small, leather-bound volume of poetry I had found in the library. He wasn't talking to it today; he was just holding it in his lap, his long fingers tracing the gold letters on the spine.
"The birds are back," he said, pointing a finger toward the trees near the lane. A small brown wren was sitting on the stone beak of the left crane, its throat moving with a quick, bright song. "The little ones. What do you call them, Lucia?"
"Wrens, Enzo," I said, sitting next to him and pouring the cream. "They're called wrens."
"A good name," he said, his blue eyes clear and bright in the spring light. "Small but loud. Like the girl from the diner."
Dante came out from the glass doors. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket today—just a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the dark tattoos of his forearms showing clearly in the sun. He looked down at his father, his hand coming to rest on the old man's shoulder with a touch that was light, easy, and entirely without the weight of the ledger.
"The pier is open today, Papa," Dante said. "The first boat from Detroit came in at seven. The Lucia."
Enzo smiled, his head dropping back against the cushion of the chair. "A good boat. Sturdy. She can handle the lake when the wind comes from the north."
He closed his eyes, his breathing regular and deep, falling into that quiet sleep that had become regular since the winter had gone.
Dante looked at me. His face was closer than it had been in the library, the dark brown of his eyes holding the reflection of the sky and the trees and the small stone cranes by the gate.
"The Morettis settled the lease on the garage," Dante said. "They’re building a park there instead of the container yard. A park with trees, Wren. For the children from Fourteenth Street."
"You're very efficient," I said, smiling up at him.
May you like
"Efficiency has its uses," he said, his hand sliding down from his father's shoulder to find mine on the arm of the chair. His fingers were warm, clean, and completely steady. "But sometimes... sometimes you just need to miss the last bus."
He leaned down then, his lips finding mine in the warm spring air, while the small bird on the crane’s beak finished its song and flew up into the clean, bright blue of a city that had finally stopped looking for its ghosts.
