Chapter 14 - The Summer of Ordinary Days
July in Chicago belonged to the lake.
The water turned a brilliant, Caribbean blue under the July sun, and the beaches along Lake Shore Drive were packed with families, beach balls, and the smell of charcoal grills and sunscreen.
The penthouse on the forty-second floor no longer felt like a glass-walled cage. The severe black marble tables had been replaced with warm oak and comfortable linen-covered chairs where the golden retriever puppy slept snoring in the afternoon sun. The walls were covered not with expensive, intimidating abstract art, but with framed crayon drawings of lopsided pirate ships and green dogs with too many legs.
On a warm Saturday afternoon, Roman sat on the balcony with a cold glass of lemonade in his hand, watching Jack and Rosie build a sandcastle on the public beach four floors below, where he could keep a watchful, loving eye on them without locking them away from the world.
The private elevator chime sounded behind him in the penthouse.
Roman didn't reach for a gun. He didn't tense his shoulders. He simply set his glass down on the wooden table and walked through the sliding glass doors into the living room.
A courier stood by the foyer entrance holding a small, brown-paper parcel tied with twine.
“Sign here, Mr. Romano,” the courier said, holding out a digital tablet.
Roman signed his name—fast, fluid, ordinary—and took the package. The courier nodded and stepped back into the elevator as the doors slid shut.
He walked over to the kitchen island, cut the twine with a small paring knife, and opened the brown paper.
Inside was a single, hardbound notebook with a plain black cover—no title, no author, no return address. On the first page, written in a neat, precise, familiar hand, was a single handwritten note:
Lesson One: A home is measured by how loud the laughter is when the door is closed.
Lesson Two: Four minutes for the eggs. No exceptions.
May you like
Lesson Three: The children are doing fine.
Roman smiled—a slow, genuine smile that reached all the way to his eyes. He closed the notebook, placed it carefully beside the fruit basket on the kitchen counter, and walked out onto the balcony to call his children up for dinner.
