“The only consolation of aging,” he said, “is the freedom to speak more accurately in public.”
He examined the collection of objects I’d gathered for his day in the public eye.
“You’re sending the black notebook with me,” he said.
“Of course.”
“I’m not convinced I want it.”
“Yes, you are.”
He let that pass without challenge because he knew I was right. The black notebook held the rehearsal notes he pretended not to rely on until he reached for it three times in the hour before stepping onto the podium.
I unplugged the iron and set it aside. Dominic was still looking at the table.
“I know the plan is solid,” I said. “I know Thiago and Eamon have covered the house, theater, stage access, and every moving part. I know they’ve checked the building. No one will drift through the Orpheum unseen.”
He looked at me. “And yet—“
“I don’t think he’s going to stop,” I said. “I think the closer we get, the more determined he becomes. Thinking about that doesn’t improve my mood.”
“No,” Dominic said. “Such a thing rarely does.”
“The linen understands.” I laughed briefly.
“I keep having the absurd thought that if I correctly sort and prepare enough things, the world will remain coherent.”
“That isn’t absurd,” Dominic said.
I looked at him.
“The problem is that coherence is not obedience.”
“Yes.”
He lifted the jacket from the chair, checked the lining with a glance, and set it back down. “You may continue.”
I inhaled slowly. “You’re important to me,” I said. “More than the job. More than anything I can make sound civilized first thing in the morning.”
He stood still and looked at me. I went on because stopping there would have been cowardly.
“You know that, I assume, but I don’t think I’ve ever said it without hiding it under a pile of domestic details. If something happened to you, it wouldn’t be a professional problem. It would feel...” I looked down once, then back up. “Personal.”
He said nothing for a few seconds.
At last he asked, “Do you realize you’re meaningful to me too?”
My throat tightened.
“You are the person who has made the past seven years of my life navigable. That is not merely an administrative function, Luca.”
I looked away toward the courtyard doors.
“When my hands shook after Helena died,” Dominic said, “you moved the donor luncheon by forty minutes so I could compose myself. When I forgot what day it was on the anniversary of Etienne’s funeral, you put coffee in my hand and the correct tie on my bed, and when people bore me, you save me.”
His voice remained even.
“You are loved here,” he said. “I hope you understand that.”
