Page 60 of Enzo

We sit, then Penelope proceeds to run through what she told me outside.

“Mr. Knight is here to get an insight into what we’re hoping to work on,” she explains. “He'll look at the site, consider the school's requirements and put together his initial recommendations.”

That's a more definite description of what I've agreed to than I remember giving Luca yesterday, but I let it go.

Miss Turlington glances at me.

“Luca has always been very generous to this school, and we are extremely grateful for his support.” Her voice fills with affection but she doesn’t elaborate. “We’ve been talking about that site for months, maybe even years,” she continues. “There’s so much we can do with the space.”

“Such as?” I ask.

Her face lights up as she mentions the things she would like. Safe after-school spaces, bigger and better art and music facilities. Indoor recreation space. Affordable childcare and holiday programs for working parents.

The site is smaller than the projects I'm accustomed to, but that doesn't make it less interesting. If anything, the parameters make it easier even if this isn’t how we do things at Knight Enterprises. We don't move this quickly. There would be preliminary reports, meetings, due diligence before anyone started talking about what might actually be built.

There will be due diligence here too, but as the headmistress speaks, I find myself picturing the land at the end of the street and mentally moving pieces around it.

It's doable.

Penelope glances at her watch.

“As previously discussed, it would be useful if Mr. Knight had someone from the school he could liaise with while he's putting together his initial recommendations. Someone who understands the children, the parents and how the school operates day to day.”

The headmistress nods. “I have just the person for you.” She reaches for the intercom. “Could you ask Miss Dean to come to my office when she has a moment, please?”

We continue talking while we wait. A few minutes later, there's a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Miss Turlington calls.

The door opens and I hear footsteps.

“Ah, thank you Molly.”

Molly?

My brain stops.

As does my heart.

It can’t be.

I glance to my side.

It’s her.

It’s really her. The kindergarten teacher. She's standing near the door in a bright pink sweater and dark pants.

The woman I haven't seen since Venice.

The woman whose video has put me everywhere. Every moment from that night in Venice comes flooding back: the evening we shared, the betrayal, the questions I've been carrying, the answers I want, and the feelings I haven't been able to explain.

I’d resigned myself to never seeing her again.

I knew she was a teacher.

I didn't know she lived in Chicago.

I didn't know she worked here.