Chapter 17
Emma became a nurse when Lucy was eight.
Vittorio attended graduation.
Not front row.
Emma had given six tickets.
One went to her mother.
One to her brother.
Two to friends from school.
One to Lucy.
One to Vittorio.
That order mattered.
Lucy wore a blue dress and swung her legs beneath the auditorium seat.
When Emma crossed the stage, Lucy shouted:
“EMMA!”
Half the row laughed.
Emma looked toward them.
Smiled.
Then kept walking.
Afterward, Vittorio offered dinner.
Emma hesitated.
He saw it.
“Not the estate.”
“That helps.”
“Restaurant.”
“Who’s paying?”
He stared.
Emma smiled.
“Relax. I’m joking.”
Mostly.
They ate at a small Italian place near the hospital.
Lucy spent ten minutes asking whether nurses were allowed to tell doctors no.
Emma said:
“Sometimes.”
Vittorio said:
“Often.”
Emma looked at him.
“You’ve changed.”
“I have always respected doctors.”
“No.”
He ignored her.
The conversation shifted.
Emma had accepted a pediatric-floor position.
Night shifts at first.
Hard hours.
Better training.
Lucy frowned.
“You work when kids sleep?”
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
“Because hospitals still exist at night.”
Lucy considered that unfair.
Then asked:
“You coming Saturdays?”
Emma’s expression changed.
Not because the answer was difficult.
Because Lucy still remembered.
Pancakes.
Saturdays.
The transition out of the estate had been gradual.
But children stored routines differently than adults.
“Sometimes,” Emma said.
“Not every.”
“No.”
Lucy looked down.
Vittorio wanted to fix the moment.
Offer a standing dinner.
A schedule.
A guaranteed visit every month.
Something predictable.
Dr. Bell had warned him about that too.
Not every relationship needed to be turned into a contract just because uncertainty once caused harm.
Emma said:
“I can call you when I know my schedule.”
Lucy nodded.
Then:
“You might forget.”
Emma looked hurt.
Vittorio did not interrupt.
That mattered.
Emma answered herself.
“I might.”
Lucy looked up.
“But if I say I’ll call, I should.”
“Yes.”
“That promise?”
“Yes.”
Emma called the next week.
Then missed one month because of training.
She texted Lucy through Vittorio first.
I can’t come Saturday. I’m sorry. Can I call Sunday?
Lucy read it.
Did not cry.
Sunday they talked for twenty minutes.
Nothing dramatic.
The relationship changed again.
Emma was no longer Lucy’s employee.
No longer daily comfort.
No longer the person standing between her and Bianca.
She became something harder to classify.
Friend.
Former caregiver.
Adult who had loved her and still had a life outside her.
That was healthier.
Lucy did not always like healthier.
Neither did Vittorio.
At nine that evening, Lucy asked:
“Can Emma come live here if hospital bad?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she has her own home.”
“She can have room.”
“She can.”
Vittorio paused.
“That does not mean she should.”
Lucy frowned.
Then:
“You say that about everybody now.”
May you like
He smiled.
Good.
