Chapter 2 - The Little Girl Upstairs
Ten weeks earlier, Raphael found a child in his sewing room.
Nobody used the sewing room.
Nobody used most of his house.
Twenty-two rooms stayed polished, heated, and empty while he lived in four.
That rainy afternoon, a faint scratching sound stopped him in the hallway.
Inside, a little girl sat by the window with a crayon in her hand.
Pink glasses.
Golden-brown curls.
A faded cloth horse tucked against her leg.
Three clean pebbles stood on the windowsill.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Building a house.”
He looked at the stones.
“Looks small.”
“It’s for us.”
“Who’s us?”
The girl pointed.
“That’s Mommy. That’s me.”
Her finger stopped at the third stone.
“That one’s waiting.”
“For who?”
She shrugged.
“Somebody who stays.”
Raphael had no answer for that.
The child returned to coloring.
She wasn’t afraid of him.
People usually checked his hands, his expression, the door behind them.
She checked whether her purple crayon was broken.
“What’s your name?”
“Noel.”
“How old are you?”
“Four. Almost five, but Mommy says almost takes a while.”
A sound came from the doorway.
Clara stood there holding a basket of folded towels.
The color drained from her face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Duca. My sitter canceled. Mrs. Dora said—”
“It’s raining,” Raphael said.
Clara blinked.
“Yes.”
“She can stay.”
He left before she could thank him.
Downstairs, Dora Kesler pretended to be busy with a vase.
“You knew,” he said.
“About the rain? Hard to miss.”
“Dora.”
“She sits quietly. Her mother works twice as hard because she’s afraid somebody will complain.”
“How long?”
“Long enough for you to notice.”
He studied the silver-haired woman who had run the house since his father was alive.
“Put a better chair in there.”
“There’s already one coming.”
“Of course there is.”
That evening, Raphael passed the room again.
Noel was asleep.
Clara knelt beside the chair, fastening her daughter’s coat with careful fingers.
Then she tried to stand.
Her left leg buckled.
She caught the windowsill before she fell.
Raphael stepped forward.
Clara recoiled so sharply that he stopped.
For a moment, neither spoke.
“I wasn’t going to touch you,” he said.
“I know.”
But her face said something else.
Later, after they left, he found a drawing on the chair.
A house.
Two small figures.
A third figure beside the door.
May you like
Above him, in crooked letters, Noel had written one word.
STAY.
