Chapter 11 - The Doctor's Report
The sun was setting behind the marsh at five o'clock on the last Sunday of October.
The air was cool, sharp, smelling of woodsmoke and salt water.
On the terrace overlooking the water, a long wooden table had been set with blue ceramic plates, fresh white bread, roasted chicken, and a bowl of fresh apples from the mountains.
Martha was bustling back and forth between the kitchen and the terrace, carrying a silver teapot and a pitcher of cold apple cider, her face bright with the busy, happy energy that had returned to the household staff over the past three months.
Roman sat at the head of the long table, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, holding Nicholas on his lap. The baby was chewing happily on a piece of soft bread, his small dark eyes watching the birds dipping down over the green marsh grass.
Beside Roman sat Rachel, wearing her cardigan against the evening chill, pouring tea into two porcelain cups.
And sitting at the far end of the table, on a high cushion, was Sophie.
She had her blue stethoscope hanging around her neck like a real physician, her small notebook open before her on the linen tablecloth, a purple crayon clamped firmly in her right hand.
"Doctor Sophie," Roman called out across the table, his voice warm, deep, and filled with an easy affection that made Rachel smile into her tea cup. "Are you going to give us the evening report?"
Sophie looked up from her notebook with profound, professional gravity.
"Yes," she announced, tapping her crayon against the paper. "Nicholas has zero fevers today. He ate three applesauce cups and he did not cry when the cat took his shoe."
"That's a very good report," Roman said, nodding solemnly. "And how is the house?"
"The house is clean," Sophie said, looking around at the high limestone walls, the polished glass doors, and the bright, sunny terrace. "The wood has no cold spots today."
"And the father?" Rachel asked softly, looking sideways at Roman with her warm dark eyes.
Sophie leaned forward, placing her blue plastic stethoscope against the linen tablecloth in Roman’s direction.
She closed her eyes for three seconds, her small face pulled together in that look of intense, terrifying concentration that had saved their lives six months ago.
She opened her eyes, looked straight at Roman, and smiled—a big, wide smile that showed her two missing front teeth.
"The father is all fixed," Doctor Sophie declared.
Roman looked at the little girl, then down at his son sleeping peacefully against his chest, and finally at Rachel, whose hand came out across the linen table to rest softly over his thick knuckles.
The long shadow of Claire's death was still there, quietly resting in the corners of his memory like an old, quiet photograph in an upper room. But it was no longer a wall. It was no longer a cage of stone and iron that kept him locked away from the warmth of the living world.
Roman turned his hand over, wrapping his broad fingers around Rachel’s, holding her tight against the cool autumn wind.
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Outside the estate, the gate stood open.
And inside, by the salt marsh under the golden sky, the Bellini home was finally alive.
