“Papa won’t like it,” he signs with obvious hesitation to my idea.
“Then we won’t tell him until after. It will be our special secret adventure.” I wink, and he grins — that wide tooth, genuine smile I’ve been working so hard to get out of him.
Twenty minutes later, we’re slipping out the side door while Raffaello is occupied doing a perimeter check. I left a note on Emmanuel’s bed letting anyone looking for us know where they could find us.
Gone to the park across the street with Emmanuel. Back by dinner. — Chloe
It’s less than a five-minute walk to the park from the mansion; the entire neighborhood is quiet, old money that lives behind wrought iron gates and manicured hedges. Emmanuel leads the way, his small hand in mine, pointing out landmarks he remembers from before.
“That’s where the ice cream truck always parks,” he signs as we pass the small parking lot. “Mama always got me chocolate ice cream sandwiches.”
My heart swells as he continues, his laughter rich as it echoes through the air. He’s expressing himself more and more, gaining confidence with each passing day.
The park is beautiful, the green grass, the perfectly manicured hedges and trees, the ocean that edges one side, and in the center is an ornate fountain with carved angels pouring water from stone urns. There are a few other people scattered around: a jogger, an elderly couple on a bench beside the water, a woman pushing a stroller.
Normal. Safe. Exactly what Emmanuel needs. We find a bench near the fountain, and I pull out the bag of breadcrumbs I’d grabbed from the kitchen for Emmanuel to feed the birds.
I watch him scatter the breadcrumbs for the eager ducks that waddle over and surround us. His laugh is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in days. After feeding the ducks, he shows me the rocks he likes to climb on, then excitedly swings on the swings before trying to make it across the monkey bars on his own, but he doesn’t quite make it.
“Papa says I’ll be tall like him someday,” he signs, looking up at the bars with determination. “Then I’ll be able to make it across.”
“Absolutely, you will,” I tell him with a smile.
He abandons his war on the monkey bars, and we move to a bench near the shore, the one the elderly couple had occupied when we first arrived. Emmanuel leans against my side as we listen to the seagulls and waves, content and tired from playing.
“This was Mama’s favorite place,” he signs quietly. “She said it was the only place she felt peaceful. That she could think here.”
“It is peaceful,” I agree. “Your Mother was right.”
“She was always smiling. Always singing.” His hands continue to move slowly, carefully, picking each word with purpose. “She and Papa always laughed together. But they always had their own space, their own rooms. I slept in Mama’s room until she died. Then Papa built my Castle, and he stayed there with me for a long time, so I wasn’t alone. So I didn’t miss her so much, I think.”
I go still as I absorb that information.She had her own room?
“Did that bother you?” I ask cautiously.
He shrugs his little shoulders in response before signing, “I asked Papa about it once. He said some mamas and papas like their own space. That it wasn’t anything bad.”
Oh?
“Were they happy?” I ask. “Your mama and papa?”
“I think so. They never fought.” He looks up at me, his dark eyes serious. “But Papa looks at you differently.”
“Different how?”
“Not like he looked at Mama,” he signs, his hands moving faster with more confidence now. “He watches you when you’re not looking. Like he’s sad and happy all at once.”
“I think Papa and Mama loved me,” Emmanuel continues, “but I don’t know if they loved each other. Not like in the movies.”
Out of the mouths of babes.The pieces suddenly click into place. No wonder my father had requested an arranged marriage agreement with Basili. He’d been in one before, with Emmanuel's mother.
They were partners, friends, co-parents. But they hadn’t been in love. They had maintained separate rooms, yet had Emmanuel to maintain appearances.
“Emmanuel,” I sigh gently, “your papa loved your mama very much. Maybe not like in the movies, but love comes in all sorts of different ways. And they loved you more than anything else.”
“I know.” He lays his head on my chest, still singing. “But I like that Papa looks at you the way he does. Like you’re special. Like the way princes look at the princesses in the movies.”
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the afternoon peace behind us.
