Chapter 7 - Dominic’s Letter
Dominic wrote twelve pages.
Quinn read three.
Then she stopped.
A week later she returned the envelope unopened from page four onward.
Dominic found it on his desk at the Moretti office with no note.
He brought it to Vincent that evening.
“She didn’t finish.”
Vincent looked at the thick envelope.
“That seems clear.”
“I thought if I explained everything in order—”
“Stop.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
Vincent pointed to the pages.
“You’ve spent fifteen years explaining everything in order.”
“What am I supposed to do, write ‘sorry’ on a napkin?”
“Maybe.”
Dominic stared.
Vincent shrugged.
“At least a napkin can’t defend itself.”
For once, Dominic laughed.
It sounded miserable but real.
He sat down.
“I don’t know how to talk to her without explaining.”
“That’s because the explanations are for you.”
Dominic looked away.
That night Dominic tore up the twelve-page letter and then regretted tearing it up because regret was still one of his favorite habits. He called Vincent at one in the morning.
“What did you write?” Vincent asked.
“Everything.”
“That was the problem.”
“I thought honesty was supposed to help.”
“Honesty is not the same thing as making the injured person read your autobiography.”
Dominic was quiet.
“Write what belongs to her,” Vincent said. “Keep the rest for somebody you're paying to listen.”
The next morning Dominic made an appointment with a therapist he had mocked three different men for seeing. He did not tell Quinn. For once, an attempt to change did not need to be witnessed by the person he had hurt.
Two days later he wrote again.
Six lines.
Quinn read all of them.
She did not reply for a month.
When she finally did, her letter was shorter.
I believe you were scared.
I believe you loved me.
I believe both things can be true and still not be enough.
I am not ready to call you my brother in the present tense.
Please stop asking me to hurry.
Dominic carried that letter in his wallet.
He did not tell Vincent until weeks later.
Meanwhile, life insisted on continuing.
Vincent had meetings.
Mrs. Alvarez needed knee surgery.
The east roof developed a leak.
A young driver named Pete backed a Bentley into a stone planter and spent twenty minutes rehearsing how to tell Vincent.
Vincent surprised himself by laughing.
Quinn’s criticism had lodged under his skin.
Weather came from men’s moods.
He had started noticing the way rooms changed around him.
So he practiced giving people less weather.
It was harder than he expected.
One afternoon Mrs. Alvarez returned from a medical appointment and found Vincent reading appliance manuals in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“The dishwasher makes a grinding sound.”
“Call maintenance.”
“I did.”
“Then why are you reading that?”
Vincent looked at the page.
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Alvarez smiled.
“You’re anxious.”
He gave her a warning look.
She ignored it.
“About Quinn?”
“About Dominic.”
“Same wound. Different chair.”
He hated when household staff became philosophers.
Then the phone rang.
Quinn.
Her voice sounded tight.
“Vincent, is Dominic with you?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Vincent checked his messages.
Dominic had left an hour earlier saying he was going to see his father.
“He went to Oak Park.”
Quinn swore under her breath.
“What happened?”
“The facility called me.”
Vincent straightened.
“Why would they call you?”
“Because Dominic put me down as secondary contact without asking.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
Growth, apparently, was not linear.
“Angelo had another stroke,” Quinn said. “They want a decision about transferring him to the hospital.”
“And Dominic?”
“He isn’t answering.”
Vincent grabbed his coat.
“I’m going.”
“I’m coming too.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
Twenty minutes later Quinn got into Vincent’s car outside Lakeshore Medical still wearing navy scrub pants beneath her coat.
They drove west through rush-hour traffic.
At the care facility, they found Dominic sitting alone in the hallway outside his father’s room.
He looked up when Quinn approached.
For a second he seemed relieved.
Then he saw her face.
“You listed me as contact?” she asked.
Dominic stood.
“I thought if something happened—”
“You thought.”
He stopped.
Quinn’s hands were trembling.
“I told you not to make me responsible for him.”
“I panicked.”
“I know.”
Two words.
Not forgiveness.
Recognition.
Dominic looked toward the closed door.
“The doctor says he probably won’t survive the night.”
Quinn went still.
Vincent waited for grief.
It did not come in the shape he expected.
Quinn sat down.
Then she laughed once, bitterly.
“I have work at six tomorrow.”
Dominic stared at her.
“What?”
“I have six people on my floor and two are new. I was worried about the linen delivery five minutes ago.”
Her eyes filled.
“How can somebody be dying and the rest of your life still be stupid?”
Vincent sat beside her.
“Because life has terrible timing.”
She nodded.
Dominic remained standing.
After a long silence Quinn asked, “Is he conscious?”
“No.”
She looked at the door.
Then at Dominic.
“You go in.”
His face changed.
“You’re not coming?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I already said what I needed to say.”
Dominic’s eyes filled.
Quinn stood.
“I’m not punishing him by staying out. I’m not rewarding myself either. I just don’t need one more ending with him.”
Dominic nodded slowly.
Then, before he went inside, Quinn touched his sleeve.
A small gesture.
The first voluntary touch Vincent had seen between them.
Dominic looked down at her hand.
Quinn said, “Don’t lie about this funeral.”
He laughed through tears.
“I won’t.”
Then he went into the room.
May you like
Angelo Russo died forty-three minutes later.
