Chapter 10 - The Castle Below the Museum
Three years later.
The hill below the Cloisters was covered in wild blackberries and old oak trees whose leaves turned a deep, burning orange in the first days of October. In the center of the ridge sat a long, low building made of gray river stone and wide, clear glass that reflected the blue water of the Hudson River below.
Above the grand cedar entrance, carved into a brass plate that had been polished until it looked like gold, were the words: The Harper-Romano Academy of Arts and Letters.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from the valley and the sharp, clean smell of the river wind.
Sarah stood in the center of the main library alcove, her green dress covered by a simple denim apron, her hands holding a stack of leather-bound volumes that had just arrived from an auction in London. Her face was full now, her dark blond hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, her smile free of any shadow.
Through the wide glass windows, she could see the courtyard below.
A group of nine-year-old children were sitting on the stone benches, their notebooks open as they listened to a teacher read from an old volume of mythology. In the center of the green stood Emily. She was nine now, her legs long, her braids gone, replaced by a thick, dark blond pony tail that swung against her shoulder as she showed her classmates a sketch she had made of the river bridge.
She didn't look like a girl who had ever known a turnstile or an empty tin of oatmeal. She looked like a girl who owned the hill she stood on.
The door to the library opened, and Dante Romano stepped into the room. He didn't wear a suit today; he wore a dark woolen sweater and jeans, his boots dusty from the gravel lane he had been walking down with Frank. He looked relaxed, the silver at his temples looking elegant rather than tired, his eyes bright as they found Sarah among the shelves.
“The buses are loaded for the afternoon shift,” Dante said, walking over to her and taking the stack of books from her hands to set them on a walnut table. “Frank’s driving the vanguard himself. He says the Bronx kids have organized a poetry slam on the back seat and he needs a referee.”
Sarah laughed, her arms wrapping around his neck, her fingers running through the dark hair at the nape of his neck. “Frank is a terrible referee, Dante. He always lets the kids win if they rhyme his name with tank.”
“He’s an old softie,” Dante murmured, his lips pressing against hers in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of the mint tea they had shared at breakfast. “We’re all softies now, Sarah. Silvio Moretti sent a postcard from Boca yesterday. He says his daughter’s gallery sold three paintings to a retired judge. He wanted to know if we needed any orange trees for the courtyard.”
“Tell him we have enough trees,” Sarah said, looking out the window at the oaks that were dropping their golden leaves onto the stone. “We have everything we need right here.”
Emily burst through the library doors, her backpack swinging from one shoulder, her cheeks pink from the October wind. She ran up to them, throwing her arms around both their waists, her head resting against Dante’s hip.
“Father! Mom!” Emily said, her voice rich and full of life. “The teacher said I can read my essay on the bridge tomorrow morning for the whole assembly. Can you stay? Can you sit in the front row with the big chairs?”
Dante reached down, his large, scarred hand closing around her small shoulder, pulling his daughter into his side until she was completely protected by his shadow.
“We’ll be there, Emily,” Dante said, his voice dropping into that deep, warm cadence that had become the foundation of their life. “We’ll be in the front row. And we’re bringing the big car with the black windows so all your friends can ride to the assembly with us.”
Emily cheered, running back toward the classroom doors where her teacher was calling her name, her laughter echoing through the high oak rafters of the library like a bell.
Dante turned back to Sarah, his arms locking around her waist, his eyes looking out at the river where the afternoon sun was turning the water into a sheet of pure, unadulterated gold.
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Six years ago, a starving child had stood in the freezing rain, holding a note in her frozen hand that had split his world open. He had thought he was racing to an ICU to bury his dead past. But as he stood in the castle they had built below the museum, listening to his daughter’s voice echo through the trees, Dante Romano realized the truth.
The past hadn't died in the storm. It had just been waiting for the rain to stop so it could finally learn how to breathe.
