he?”
“My God, Claire, that’s my great-grandfather.”
“It’s a heartbreaking story,” I continued. “I think I finally have the information I need to write a draft.”
Ethan frowned. “You know you can’t write about this.”
“What do you mean?”
“It would ruin the family name, the newspaper. It would destroy Grandpa.”
“I think you have it all wrong, Ethan,” I said. “I know Warren. He’d want to air the truth.”
He set his napkin on his plate. “No. We can’t take the risk of hurting him when he’s so ill.”
“Well,” I said, “fortunately, you’re not my boss, Ethan.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m your boss’s boss.”
I gasped. “You’d really kill this story because it involves skeletons in your family’s closet?”
“Yes,” he said. “I would.”
The server appeared, but I waved him away. “I’m not the only one looking for answers. You should have seen the scene at Lillian Sharpe’s home in Windermere. Her father was involved in the murder trial of the boy’s mother. Someone had ransacked the place looking for his files. The truth is bound to come out eventually.”
“But my paper won’t be the one breaking the news,” he said, laying a fifty-dollar bill on the table and reaching for his coat.
I hadn’t anticipated going to Café Lavanto. I’d instructed the cab to drop me off at home, but I shook my head when the driver pulled the car in front of the building. “No,” I said. “Change of plans. Take me up to Fifth, please.”
I knocked and Dominic unlocked the door to the café. “Mind if I come in?” I asked.
“Please,” he said warmly. A fire crackled a few feet away. Soft music played from the speakers overhead. He smiled at me in a way that made me swallow hard. “Come, sit down.”
Something seemed off about the café. A few cardboard boxes sat near the door. What else has changed? New paint? Curtains? I felt too disoriented to focus on the details. Dominic reached for a bottle of wine on the bar and pulled a corkscrew from his pocket. “Wine?”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
I watched as he poured two glasses, handing me one. “To new beginnings,” he said.
I nodded, clinking my glass against his. But I set it down before I had taken a sip. “Wait, you said ‘beginnings,’ plural. What did you mean by that?”
“Well,” he said, looking around the café, “there is something I should probably tell you.” He paused. “I should have told you about this earlier, Claire.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve made a big decision, about my business. About this place.”
“What, you’re going to convert the space upstairs into the loft you always wanted? Add a lunch menu?”
He shook his head. “No. Claire, I’ve decided to sell it.”
My mouth flew open. “But—but you said you’d never do that. You said you loved this place. That you couldn’t see it get into the hands of another set of condo developers. Am I missing something here?”
“I did say all of that,” he continued. “And I meant it. But yesterday, a developer made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He’d been trying to convince me to sell for a while and I was determined not to, but his latest offer was so generous that when I considered my circumstances, I realized I’d be a fool not to accept it. Listen, it’s a life-changing amount of money, Claire. I could see that my mother is properly cared for, then buy a place, and”—he leaned closer to me—“settle down.”
“No,” I said, standing up. “I can’t believe you’re saying this.” I felt torn. I knew he was facing financial pressure to support his mother, and yet I couldn’t stand the thought of the beloved building being torn down. “There’s too much history in these walls,” I countered. “You just can’t put a dollar amount on something so special.”
“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “Believe me, it was an agonizing decision. I wish there was another way.”
I pushed the glass away.
“Claire,” Dominic said, trying to get me to smile, “please say this won’t change anything between…us.”
He lifted his hand and stroked my cheek gently. I closed my eyes as he pulled me toward him. His embrace was warm, comforting, but I pulled back.
“I’m sorry, Dominic. “I have to go.”
Chapter 19
“Warren, this is Claire,” I said over the phone the next morning.
“Hi honey,” he said in almost a whisper.
“Why the hushed voice?”
“The nurse thinks I’m sleeping.”
“And why would she care if you’re sleeping or not sleeping?”
“She said she has to give me a shot when I wake up.”
“A shot.”
“Yes.”
I stifled a laugh, but