Chapter 11 – THE YELLOW BLOOM

Six months later.

Spring had officially arrived in Chicago.

The Moretti estate was unrecognizable from the tense, sterile mansion it had been when Vanessa Bellini lived there.

The heavy drapes were open. Music played in the kitchen.

And the backyard was a masterpiece.

All twelve yellow rosebushes had taken root. They bloomed in a massive, vibrant wall of color against the back brick fence.

I walked out onto the patio, carrying a pitcher of lemonade.

I wasn’t wearing a maid’s uniform anymore.

I was wearing a simple sundress, my hair pulled back by a yellow ribbon Emma had given me.

After Vanessa’s arrest, Luca had insisted on paying for me to finish my nursing degree—the one I had dropped out of when my mother got fired.

I worked part-time at the local clinic now, but I still spent my weekends here.

Not as an employee.

As a guest.

“Watch out!” David yelled, diving across the grass to catch a baseball.

Emma cheered, holding a bat.

“Home run!” she shouted, dropping the bat and running the bases they had made out of old throw pillows.

Luca was standing by the white bench, watching them play.

He turned when he heard the patio door open.

His face lit up when he saw me.

“You made it,” he said, walking up the steps to meet me.

“I told you I’d be here for the anniversary barbecue,” I smiled, pouring him a glass of lemonade.

Today marked five years since Caroline’s passing.

But it wasn’t a day of mourning anymore. It was a celebration of her life.

My mother, Mary, walked out behind me, carrying a tray of sandwiches. She looked ten years younger, her stress lines faded, her nursing license fully restored.

“Luca, stop eating the chips and help David with the grill,” she ordered playfully.

“Yes, ma’am,” Luca chuckled, taking the lemonade.

He paused, looking at me.

“Walk with me for a second?” he asked softly.

I nodded, my heart doing a familiar flutter.

We walked away from the patio, down the small stone path toward the far end of the rose garden.

The white bench gleamed in the sun. The yellow butterfly painted on the armrest looked as vibrant as the day it was painted.

Luca stopped in front of the oldest rosebush.

The one Emma had tried to save.

It had survived the winter. It was taller now, stronger.

“She was right,” Luca said quietly, looking at the flowers.

“Who?”

“Caroline. She said roses are stronger than they look.”

He reached into his pocket.

For a second, my breath caught.

But he didn’t pull out a ring box. He pulled out the gold pocket watch.

He popped it open.

It was ticking.

He had taken it to a jeweler to get the gears fixed.

“It’s running again,” I smiled.

“It is,” Luca said. He looked at me, his dark eyes deeply sincere. “I spent four years thinking my life was stopped at 11:14. I thought the best parts of my story were already written.”

He reached out and gently took my hand.

“But you helped me wind it back up, Rebecca.”

I looked down at our joined hands. “You did the work, Luca. You and Emma.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you.”

He didn’t pull me into a dramatic kiss. He didn’t rush.

We had spent the last six months building a foundation built on absolute trust and respect.

He slowly lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles.

“Take your time, Rebecca,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Daddy! Rebecca!”

We turned.

Emma was running toward us, her face flushed with excitement.

She wasn’t wearing a stiff, itchy lace dress. She was wearing overalls and muddy sneakers.

She held out her hand.

In her palm was a single, perfect yellow rose she had just cut from the original bush.

“For Mommy,” Emma said proudly.

Luca smiled, kneeling down. “It’s beautiful, baby. Let’s go put it by her picture.”

Emma nodded.

Then she stopped, looking at the bush, and carefully cut a second yellow rose.

She turned and handed it to me.

“And this one is for you, Miss Rebecca.”

Tears pricked my eyes as I took the flower.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Emma grinned, grabbing her father’s hand and my hand, linking us together.

“Come on!” she pulled us toward the house. “Uncle David is burning the hot dogs!”

Luca laughed, a rich, deep sound that carried over the garden.

I looked back at the twelve yellow rosebushes swaying gently in the spring breeze.

They were safe.

Emma was safe.

And as we walked into the sunlight together, I knew that Caroline’s garden would never be uprooted again.

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