“Then why the speech?” I ask, and keep my tone mild and even, so it doesn’t sound like a demand.
“Because I don’t like when people carry things alone when they don’t have to,” she says.
We stop just outside her door and don’t go in yet. She turns to face me in the hallway.
“You seem distracted,” she says, and her voice lowers again. “Personally.”
Personally.
I know what she means. I also know I don’t want to put any part of it in her hands. Not because I don’t trust her. Because I don’t trust myself with the way the truth would come out if it left my mouth right now.
I look at the wall over her shoulder—one of those quiet corporate prints of the bay at dawn—and give myself two seconds to choose the exact words of my next sentence.
“Have I failed you,” I ask, “in a way that hurts the project?”
“No,” she says at once. Relief fast and full. She shakes her head. “No. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Have I failed the family?” I ask, because that’s the other measure that matters.
“No,” she says again. Then she exhales like I had been holding her breath for her. “You know I would tell you if you had.”
“I do,” I say. “So, what are you saying?”
I look directly at her because she is my niece and my partner in this and the bravest person I know, and I don’t want to hurt her by making her feel like she overstepped when all she did was care.
A manager turns the corner, sees us, and does an immediate polite detour. People do that around Caterina. They don’t want to break her flow. She keeps her eyes on me.
“I know you don’t like to lie to family,” she says softly. “And I would never ask you to. So, I’ll talk, and you can choose not to answer. Deal?”
I nod once.
“I see you look at Olivia like a man who doesn’t want to look and can’t help it,” she says. “I’m not blind. I’m also not a child.”
I hold her gaze. I do not confirm it. I don’t raise a hand to wave the conversation away. I don’t ask what she thinks she saw.
“She’s good at her job,” I say.
“She is,” Caterina says. “She’s also my friend.”
“I know that too,” I say.
We stand there a second longer. I can smell something faint and floral wafting over from someone’s office, and I hear the printer somewhere down the hall. I pick my next words carefully.
“I won’t hurt your project,” I say first, because that’s the part that touches all of us.
“I didn’t think you would,” she says, softening.
“I won’t hurt your friend,” I add. Anymore.
She studies my face for a beat. She nods once. “Good,” she says. Then softer, “Thank you.”
“I have rules,” I say.
“I know,” she says.
Finally, we step into her office. It’s finally been finished and furnished. It gives off an air of professional warmth, which is Caterina down to a T.
Deep green walls in matte, brass hardware that warms the room. A long walnut desk calls attention to the center of the room. One wall is covered in floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the water.
