“I do.”
“Good. I’ve also told him to stop writing instructions that make sense only inside his own head.”
That helped more than I expected.
On the anniversary evening, I arrived wearing red.
The dress fit well because somebody had altered it, not because fate had decided to turn me into someone else.
My shoes were comfortable.
My hair was pinned back.
In my bag was a copy of the shift plan, my bus pass, and a photograph of my father.
I did not know why I brought it until I walked through the doors.
Vincenzo’s looked beautiful.
Candles.
Flowers.
A string trio.
Staff moving quickly between tables.
Then I saw the presentation screen near the stage.
A series of old photographs showed the growth of the Moretti hospitality businesses.
New buildings.
Smiling men.
Ceremonial shovels.
A ribbon being cut outside the Bell Street development.
My father stood at the edge of the photograph.
Not named.
Half hidden behind a man shaking Gideon Moretti’s hand.
I stopped.
For eleven years, I had searched my memory for more of him.
And there he was on a screen above a champagne table.
Part of a success story.
Enzo came down the stairs carrying his phone.
He saw me.
For a second, his expression softened.
Then he saw where I was looking.
The smile left his face.
“Clara.”
“Who approved this?”
“I haven’t reviewed the final presentation.”
“Somebody did.”
He looked at the screen.
My father disappeared.
Another building replaced him.
Enzo called Nia.
“Stop the presentation.”
She looked up from the entrance desk.
Then followed his gaze.
Within seconds, the screen went dark.
A technician approached, confused.
Enzo asked him to wait.
Then he looked back at me.
I had not realized I was crying until I tasted salt.
“You built a celebration around it.”
“No,” he said.
