Chapter 8 - The Return
Two weeks later, the letter arrived at our small apartment in Chicago—a modest, second-floor walk-up with a view of an alley and a radiator that clanked like a skeleton in a tin box.
It wasn't stamped with a Swiss postmark. It bore the heavy, cream-colored seal of the Bennett-Moretti Trust, Bellagio, Italy.
I sat at my drafting table—the same one with the wobbly left leg and the water stains from three years of late-night coffee cups—and slit the envelope open with my thumb.
Inside was a single sheet of heavy vellum paper, typed in crisp, black courier font:
Dear Elena,
The municipal registry in Milan has officially updated its records. The 1952 hypothec has been dissolved, and the original deed has been restored to the Bennett estate.
As of this morning, the board of directors has voted unanimously to appoint a new managing director for the Grand Hotel Bellagio. Her office is on the fifth floor. The desk has a very good view of the lake.
We are holding your rooms. The boy’s room has been painted blue, just as you requested.
Respectfully, Dante Moretti Managing Director (Pro Tem)
At the bottom of the page, in a different, hurried handwriting, was a postscript:
P.S. Augusto Ricci was last seen trying to sell fake timeshares in Rimini. Don't worry about him. The lake has a way of washing away the trash.
I stared at the letter for a long, quiet minute.
From the other room, I could hear Noah singing some nonsense song he’d learned at his new school, his sneakers thumping against the linoleum floor as he chased our fat, lazy tabby cat.
May you like
I stood up, walked over to the closet, and pulled down my canvas duffel bag.
I didn't throw away the thrift-store dress. I folded it neatly, placed it at the bottom of the bag right beside my mechanical pencils and the heavy iron key, and zipped it shut.
