Chapter 9 – The Things They Could Still Fix

“Yes, sweetheart,” Luca answered. “The baby can stay too.”

Isabelle looked uncertain.

“Even if Vanessa doesn’t live here?”

He nodded.

“We’ll make arrangements so the baby is safe and loved. And you’ll be safe and loved too.”

She thought about that.

“Does that mean I have to share my room?”

“No.”

“Or my dresser?”

“No.”

She looked relieved.

Then she held up the broken ballerina.

“What about Mommy’s music box?”

Luca smiled sadly.

“We’re still going to try to fix it.”

She nodded.

“Okay.”

It wasn’t a magical moment.

Isabelle didn’t suddenly forget everything that had happened.

She still glanced toward Vanessa whenever she entered a room.

She still asked Charlotte or Mrs. Carter before moving things from her dresser.

And for several nights, she slept with the light on.

But Luca noticed.

That was the difference.

He began coming upstairs before bedtime.

Sometimes he brought a book.

Sometimes he simply sat in the old rocking chair while Isabelle talked about school.

At first, she barely spoke.

Then one evening, she told him about a girl in her class who kept borrowing pencils and forgetting to return them.

Another night, she complained about fractions.

He listened.

He didn’t check his phone.

He didn’t ask Vanessa to handle it.

He stayed until Isabelle was ready for him to leave.

I noticed those things because I was usually finishing the evening laundry when he came upstairs.

The Moretti mansion still had the same chandeliers, expensive paintings, and polished floors.

But something about it felt different.

The house no longer seemed arranged around avoiding uncomfortable conversations.

Vanessa moved into a separate apartment before the end of the week.

Helen helped her.

Luca made sure she had access to medical appointments and practical support during the pregnancy.

He didn’t threaten her.

He didn’t publicly shame her.

But he didn’t ask Isabelle to pretend nothing had happened.

Susan Palmer canceled the bedroom renovation and returned the unused deposits.

She also helped arrange for the existing furniture to be inspected and repaired where necessary.

The blue rocking chair needed a new joint beneath one arm.

Isabelle insisted the old fabric remain.

Susan agreed.

And the doorframe stayed exactly where it was.

Every pencil mark.

Every heart.

Every birthday date.

One afternoon, Luca called me into his office.

I was nervous.

Despite everything he’d said, I still worried about my position.

My father’s mortgage payment had been due that Monday.

I’d managed to send the money, but there was almost nothing left in my checking account.

Luca gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Charlotte, please sit.”

I did.

He looked uncomfortable.

“I owe you an apology.”

I blinked.

“Sir?”

“You were threatened with losing your job because you protected my daughter.”

I lowered my eyes.

“I was only trying to help.”

“That doesn’t make what happened acceptable.”

He paused.

“Mrs. Carter tells me you’ve been taking on additional responsibilities for months without a change in your pay.”

I looked up.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

I almost laughed.

Because Vanessa had been the person who approved payroll adjustments.

Because I couldn’t afford to complain.

Because people like me didn’t usually win arguments with people like her.

But I only said, “I didn’t think it would help.”

Luca nodded slowly.

“I understand.”

He slid a document across the desk.

It was a revised employment agreement.

A higher salary.

Proper overtime compensation.

And a formal role coordinating the household’s day-to-day operations alongside Mrs. Carter.

I stared at it.

“Mr. Moretti, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to decide today.”

He paused.

“And Charlotte?”

“Yes?”

“If anyone working in this house has a concern, I want them to be able to raise it without fearing for their job.”

My eyes filled.

“Thank you.”

He shook his head.

“I should’ve established that a long time ago.”

That evening, I found Isabelle sitting beside her dresser.

The pieces of the music box were spread across a clean towel.

She was trying to fit the little silver arm back onto the ballerina.

“Careful, sweetheart.”

She looked up.

“I’m not pushing hard.”

“I know.”

She held up the figure.

“Do you think someone can really fix her?”

I sat beside her.

“I think it’s worth trying.”

She looked at the broken porcelain.

“Daddy said he found a man who repairs old clocks and music boxes.”

“That’s good news.”

She nodded.

“He said we could take it together.”

I smiled.

“Would you like that?”

“Yes.”

Then she looked at me.

“Miss Charlotte?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Mommy would be mad because I broke it?”

I shook my head.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t break it.”

“I tried to grab it.”

“You were trying to keep something precious safe.”

She considered that.

Then whispered, “I wish I could tell Mommy I’m sorry.”

I touched her hand.

“Your mother knew you loved her.”

Isabelle looked down.

“Sometimes I don’t remember her voice.”

My heart tightened.

“I know.”

She stared at the music box.

“That’s why I need the song.”

The next afternoon, Luca took Isabelle to a small restoration workshop in Chicago.

I accompanied them because Isabelle asked me to.

The craftsman examined the mechanism beneath a magnifying glass.

He turned the winding key carefully.

The damaged cylinder clicked.

Then stopped.

The man frowned.

“The mechanism can probably be repaired.”

Isabelle leaned forward.

“And the ballerina?”

He examined the broken silver arm.

“I can reattach it. The repair might show a little.”

She nodded immediately.

“That’s okay.”

Then the craftsman turned the music box over.

He pointed to something beneath its base.

A small paper label had loosened from the lining.

“There’s handwriting here,” he said.

Luca leaned closer.

The craftsman carefully lifted the edge.

Caroline’s handwriting appeared.

Five words, written in faded blue ink.

For Isabelle, when she needs me.

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