Page 37 of The Fall Affair

Cassie shrugged. “Why not open your own firm?”

“Oh God. I’m not sure I’m ready to go out alone.” It was a big responsibility having your own law firm, not to mention a tremendous cost. I worked with high-net-worth clients who expected a fancy office, a full staff, and more than one attorney.

“You wouldn’t be alone.” Cassie smiled. “You’d have me.”

And…in a few months I’d have my inheritance and could fund something big like that. “I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

We spoke for another ten minutes before hanging up. A week ago, I probably would’ve been thrilled to know a client wanted to leave the firm with me. I would’ve immediately hyper-focused on what firms I should reach out to. But at the moment, the thought of it all left me feeling unsettled, and I wanted to ignore it.

So that’s exactly what I did. I let my pie cool and went down to the only place I knew where time seemed to stand still—Nonna’s antique shop.

I’d planned to clean the shop, but instead I wound up playing old records on a Victrola I found. I’d only ever seen one on TV, so it took me a minute to figure out how to get it to work. But once I cranked the handle on the side of the box, I couldn’t stop myself. I sat on the floor for three hours, playing 78 after 78. One winding carried me through each song, and the notes seemed to float out through the big brass horn. There was something achingly beautiful about the music, and I wasn’t sure if it was because it felt like I was listening to the soul of a forgotten era or because the sound came out slightly muffled, making it feel imperfect and human.

Each side of an album had one song, and it took me a while to play all two dozen I’d found in the wooden milk crate beneath the Victrola. But once I finished, I finally forced myself to get up and do something productive. I washed the floors, cleaned the windows, and dusted every glass display case. The last one held the cash register, and as I moved toward it, I spotted a box I’d completely forgotten about. A woman had brought it by a few days ago and insisted I pay for the piece inside—a part of the tea set my grandmother had been collecting that she’d mentioned in her letter.

Inside, wrapped in crinkled newspaper, was a single delicate teacup, its base hand-painted with a beautiful Tuscan scene—rolling green hills, soft strokes of lavender wildflowers blowing in the wind, and shades of orange and gold capturing a beautiful sunset. Beneath it was a photo of the exact same scene. The artist must’ve painted it after visiting in person. The bottom of the teacup was signed, but I could only make out the first initial, and it was numbered eight of twelve. When I turned the photo over, I found a date written at the top, along with something written in cursive underneath:

Confession #8: I kept waiting for the perfect moment to tell you I’d fallen in love, but every moment with you was already perfect.

Wow. I was caught off guard by how deeply the words stirred something inside me, and I was glad when the bell on the front door jangled, and an older woman walked in.

She looked around as she spoke. “Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

She rattled off a sentence in Italian so fast, I wasn’t sure I would’ve caught what she said even if I was fluent. I waved my hand and offered the sentence I knew best.

“Scusa, parlo solo un po’ di Italiano. Inglese?” Sorry, I only speak a little Italian. English?

The woman frowned. “Sophia?”

Shoot. I was pretty sure she was asking where my grandmother was. “Sophia.” I pointed to myself. “Mia nonna. She…died.”

The woman’s gray bushy eyebrows pulled together, but then her eyes widened. “Dead?”

I nodded.

“You nonna?”

I nodded again, and she swamped me in a hug. “Oh. Uh, thank you,” I said. “Grazie.”

After, she marched around the store picking up random things—salt and pepper shakers, one silver candlestick, a typewriter… It didn’t even seem like she considered each item before adding it to the collection in her arms. When she had a dozen or so items, she dropped them all at the register and offered a curt nod.

“You…want me to ring you up for all of this?”

She stared at me for a while before rubbing her fingers together in the universal sign for money and nodding. “I pay.”

“Okay…”

I was ringing in the last item when she picked up the teacup I’d just opened. She held it out to me. “I pay, too.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. That’s not for sale.”

She shrugged and set it back down, then took out her wallet, paid in cash, and didn’t wait for change before walking out.

After her car pulled away, I took the teacup to the back of the store. My grandmother’s note had said the tea set she’d been collecting was stored in the closet, so I figured I might find more of these pretty cups in there. But when I pulled out the large box from the bottom shelf, the first cup I unwrapped looked nothing like the one I’d bought the other day, though it seemed to have been painted by the same artist. It was another Tuscan landscape, but this one showed a stone church nestled in the hills. The details were even more intricate: stained-glass windows, terra-cotta roof tiles, and a bell tower topped with a cross. Another photograph was tucked beneath it. If it were possible, this painting was even more spot-on than the first. I flipped the photo over and found another beautiful note written on the back.

Confession #1: I pretended not to notice you staring that day at church, but the truth is, I was hoping you’d never stop.