We have now covered roughly half of the cemetery’s central alley. My heart accelerates as we turn left after the marble statue of the Virgin and head down a narrower path. Stephen’s final resting place is in the granite vault at the end. Finally, we reach our destination.
Among my paternal ancestors’ plates, I find Dad’s first. And then I see Stephen’s. It has his name and dates of birth and death, a stark reminder of how untimely he left us, of how much we lost…
On that cursed morning, when he realized what had happened between his wife and his own dad, Stephen rushed outside. Before anyone realized what he was doing, he drove off at breakneck speed and failed to negotiate the first sharp bend on his way.
Was it suicide? An accident?We’ll never know.
Tears sting my eyes, but I swallow them back and trace my fingers over his name.
“Stephen,” I whisper, “I wanted to come here sooner, but I… I’m sorry.”
Something weird happens right after I utter those words. It must be a hallucination caused by my brain glitching due to the emotional overload. The air around me, the air I’m breathing, the air inside my lungs heats up with a warmth emanating from Stephen’s corner of the mausoleum. It feels like a presence or a connection, and it brings with it indescribable comfort.
As though of its own accord, my hand reaches into my pocket. I pull out a silver coin with Napoleon’s profile on it. I don’t remember putting it there before we drove out.
Margot gives me a quizzical look.
“It’s an imperial five francs,” I explain. “Stephen and I found it when we were kids, during one of our explorations of the woods near the castle.”
Forging ahead with my undertaking, which I seem to have planned under the radar of my consciousness, I stick the coin into the large pot of ornamental plants beneath Stephen’s plaque. I push it deeper with my finger and then refill the hole.
“It’s yours, Steph,” I say. “I wanted you to have it then, and I want you to have it now.”
I have no clue why I did that, but it felt right. So right that, in my head, I continue talking to Stephen.
Have you seen how much he has grown in two and a half years? Isn’t it impressive how well he reads and writes for a seven-year-old?
Well, OK, he does make some hilarious mistakes, but that doesn’t diminish his achievement. What delights me even more than his literacy is his inner strength—a telltale sign of a future leader.
And he’s so full of energy and mischief!
He loves running around in the castle park with his friends or with his nanny Zara, and playing any sport he can get his hands on. Since I took him to Monaco Grand Prix last year, he’s become a huge fan of Formula 1, and car racing in general.
He loves jigsaw puzzles. Lego is another favorite. Matteo can spend an entire Saturday afternoon building an elaborate vehicle or structure, giving a purpose and backstory to every design choice he makes. On Sunday nights, he and I eat burgers and play Minecraft. It’s our father-and-son time.
I tense up momentarily, panicked that Stephen may feel betrayed that I’ve taken his place. But the warmth I’ve been bathing in since I touched the plaque doesn’t dissipate. Slowly, I release the breath I’m holding.
“I’ve stepped into your shoes, Steph,” I say, “but I always tell Matteo how much you loved and cherished him.”
To contain my emotions, I lift my eyes to the evening sky, streaked with purple and orange, before looking at the plaque again. “He’s amazing, Steph. Smart, generous, funny… A mini-you.”
It occurs to me that Stephen already knows it.
“You’ve been watching over Matteo all this time from wherever you are now, haven’t you?” I ask.
“Of course he has, dummy.” Margot wraps her arms around me.
I glance at her and smile. “This young woman who presumes to read your mind is my fiancée, Margot.”
“Hi, Stephen,” Margot says. “I’m so glad to finally meet you!”
“Margot and Matteo hit it off from the get-go,” I tell Stephen. “I wish the same applied to Mom… I mean, the way she treats Margot, not Matteo. Mom would die for Matteo.”
“She’d kill for him first,” Margot suggests.
True.
“And our little sis,” I continue, “is devoted to her nephew. If we count the nanny, Matteo has five people, four of them women, who dote on him.”
