“You’re not going to protect her from hard questions.”
“I’m going to throw them at her myself,” Caterina says. “You taught me that. Better she answer mine before she has to answer strangers’.”
I glance toward the hallway, where the court file sits on the console exactly where Clara said she put it. Time is moving whether I like it or not. I take another bite of toast and decide how to carry this.
“You should’ve told me you were asking her to move before an offer,” I say.
“You would have told me to wait,” she says.
“Correct,” I say.
“And I would havesaid no.”
“Also correct,” I say. “And then we would have had this conversation last week instead of this morning.”
She huffs, but she doesn’t apologize. I don’t ask her to. She’s right about the timeline. She’s right about the launch. She might also be right about the hire. I just don’t like being surprised.
Caterina picks up my espresso and takes a sip, makes a face, sets it back down. “You’ll come?”
“I’ll come,” I say.
“And you’ll watch without deciding you hate her in the first two minutes because you hate me today.”
“I don’t hate you today,” I say, dry. “You’re my niece. I’m obligated to love you even when you make choices I wouldn’t.”
“Which is often,” she says, and grins now, some of the brightness turning playful. “It’s mutual.”
“Wonderful,” I say. “Mutual obligation. Put that on a mug.”
“I’ll put it in the gift shop.” She taps the folder. “Do you want to look at this now, or can I send you the digital after you survive your morning?”
“Send it,” I say. “I’ll read it between court and lunch.”
“Don’t read it at lunch,” she says. “You glare when you read.”
“I glare when men tell me stories about the first time they saw the Boardwalk and expectme to clap,” I say.
“Oh,him,” she says, immediately. “Better you than me, Tio.”
“It’s necessary,” I say. “That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.”
“You’ll survive it,” she says. “Olivia’s coming in early, then we’ll spend the afternoon choosing fonts.” She smirks. “Unless you want to be there for that.”
“Do not talk to me about fonts,” I say. “Ever.”
“You have opinions,” she says, eyes bright.
“I have limits,” I say.
She leans in, kisses my cheek again. “See you later,” she says, already halfway to the door. Over her shoulder: “You’ll love her. I promise.”
“I reserve judgment,” I call after her, but she’s laughing down the hall, telling Clara she’ll be back later, the front door opening and closing.
The kitchen quiets with the absence of her presence. I look at the folder, then the biscotti. I pick up the biscuit, bite. It’s good. I finish my espresso, rinse the cup, set it upside down on the rack.
I think about what she said.
Not the part about me disapproving; she wasn’t wrong. The part about launch temperament. Ability to move fast without getting sloppy. To take direction without shrinking. To push back without making it about ego.
