Chapter 2 - THE GIRL WHO WOULDN'T SPEAK
I returned to Bellanote the next evening with a blister on my heel and a question I couldn't stop asking myself.
What had Sophia been trying to say?
At six-thirty, the restaurant's front doors opened. Dante Russo entered alone, carrying a small pink backpack. Sophia walked beside him, her fingers wrapped around two of his.
Tony nearly dropped the reservation book.
“Mr. Russo. Welcome back.”
Dante nodded. “Table for two.”
Sophia didn't look at the dining room. Her eyes moved across the floor until they found me.
She stopped.
Dante followed her gaze. “Nora's working tonight.”
Sophia took one step toward me, then another.
I crouched beside the service station. “Hi, sweetheart.”
She didn't answer, but held out the backpack.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper. A child's drawing filled the page: a large house, three stick figures, and a yellow sun. One figure was small. One had long dark hair. The third wore a black rectangle that might have been a suit.
I smiled. “Is this your family?”
Sophia nodded.
“That's Daddy?”
Another nod.
“And that's you?”
She touched the smallest figure.
“Who's this?” I asked, pointing to the woman.
Sophia's fingers hovered over the paper. Then she folded it in half.
I didn't ask again.
Dante watched the exchange with painful attention. “She hasn't drawn anything since Isabella left.”
I carried their menus to the booth. Sophia chose the seat beside the wall, away from the aisle. Dante asked whether she wanted pasta or soup and waited while she stared at the menu.
She pointed to buttered noodles.
“Good choice,” I said.
She looked at me. It was the first time she had looked directly into my eyes without turning away.
During dinner, I brought her warm broth and bread. She ate two spoonfuls. Dante watched each one as if it were a miracle.
“Don't stare,” I murmured.
He glanced at me. “I'm not.”
“You are.”
His mouth twitched.
After dinner, Dante remained at the booth while I cleared the plates.
“Would you consider spending a little time with Sophia outside the restaurant? Not as an employee. I would pay you for your time.”
“I’m not qualified to treat trauma.”
“I know.”
“She needs a child psychologist.”
“She has one. She refuses to speak to him.”
“Then she needs someone who understands what she's going through.”
Dante looked down at his hands. “I'm trying.”
“I can see that.”
He asked whether I could come by for an hour the next day. Her therapist had suggested a familiar, low-pressure presence. Someone she had chosen herself.
I hesitated. My shifts were already exhausting, and my savings envelope was thin.
“I can come for an hour.”
“Thank you.”
Sophia had been listening. She slid the drawing toward me and pushed a yellow crayon across the table.
“For me?”
She nodded.
“Then I'll bring it back tomorrow.”
Her mouth moved slightly, almost a smile.
When they left, Tony cornered me near the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“You know what I mean. That's Dante Russo's daughter. His family doesn't invite strangers into their house.”
“Then it's a good thing he invited me.”
“People who get close to that family end up in trouble.”
I picked up a tray. “Then I won't get close.”
But at home, I placed Sophia's drawing on the small table beside my bed. I stared at it for a long time.
Three figures. A house. A sun.
And a woman whose face Sophia had folded out of sight.
May you like
I wondered what had happened in that house.
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