Chapter 4 – The Complaint Nobody Could Explain

Camille stared at the complaint.

“I didn’t write that.”

Nobody had accused her aloud.

That made her answer feel strangely premature.

Lorenzo set the paper beside Olivia’s letter.

“Then help us understand how the sentence got there.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who had access to her correspondence?”

“Household staff. The courier service. Anyone who handled deliveries.”

I felt her glance settle on me.

It was brief.

But I understood it.

I’d been employed for thirteen days. Nobody knew much about me. I didn’t have the money to hire someone to defend my reputation if the wrong person decided I was dishonest.

“Mrs. Bellini,” I said, “those letters were returned long before I started working here.”

“I wasn’t referring to you.”

She smiled.

A very small smile.

“I simply meant that letters pass through many hands.”

Lorenzo turned the correspondence notebook toward her.

“According to this, they passed through yours.”

Camille sat down again.

There was a long silence.

Then she said, “When Olivia started clinical training, I contacted the college about the memorial fund. I asked whether any of our scholarships could be used for students in her program.”

Olivia looked confused.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think I was trying to interfere.”

Olivia almost laughed.

Camille continued.

“I sent the foundation office some background correspondence explaining the family circumstances. It’s possible somebody quoted from those materials.”

Lorenzo’s expression tightened.

“You sent my daughter’s private letters to people at her college?”

“Only excerpts.”

“Without asking her?”

Camille looked at Olivia.

“I was trying to establish whether the fund could help you.”

“Then why was the complaint about my integrity?”

“I don’t know how that happened.”

For once, I believed she might genuinely dislike where her decisions had led.

That didn’t make them harmless.

Olivia folded the complaint.

“I’ll speak to the college tomorrow,” she said.

Lorenzo immediately reached for his phone.

“I’ll arrange—”

“No.”

The word came out sharper than any of us expected.

He stopped.

Olivia looked embarrassed, but she didn’t apologize.

“Please don’t send somebody to fix it for me.”

“Liv, I was going to request the records.”

“They’re my records.”

He slowly lowered the phone.

She continued.

“I’ve spent two years trying to prove that I’m more than your daughter. And every time something goes wrong, people assume you can make it disappear.”

Lorenzo studied her.

“Then what do you need from me?”

She swallowed.

“I need you to believe I can handle it.”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

“And I need you to come Saturday without six men in black suits standing behind you.”

For the first time that evening, a reluctant smile touched his face.

“I can manage that.”

“One car.”

“One car.”

“No intimidating the dean.”

“I wasn’t planning to intimidate the dean.”

I looked at the open folder on his desk.

Olivia raised an eyebrow.

“Dad.”

He sighed.

“Fine. I won’t even look disappointed at the dean.”

She laughed.

It lasted only a second.

But I could see what that second meant to him.

He’d missed two years of hearing his daughter laugh.

Afterward, Olivia asked if she could change out of her graduation gown.

Lorenzo told her the guest room she’d always used was still hers.

She hesitated.

“I wasn’t planning to stay.”

“Then you don’t have to.”

“I have things at my apartment.”

“I understand.”

He touched her shoulder.

“But I’d be glad if you stayed for dinner.”

Olivia looked at the enormous dining table.

“Just dinner?”

“Just dinner.”

She nodded.

I carried her gown into the adjoining sitting room, where there was a full-length mirror and enough light to check the hem.

Olivia followed me.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

I found a loose thread near the sleeve and reached for my small sewing kit.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

“I’m good at sewing.”

“Still.”

“You’re allowed to let somebody help with one thread.”

She smiled.

Then she looked at her reflection.

“I was so angry with him, Hannah.”

“I know.”

“I wanted him to come after me when I moved out. I wanted him to knock on my apartment door and tell me we’d both been stupid.”

“Did you tell him where you were living?”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“I know. That’s the part I keep forgetting when I’m angry.”

I bent to examine the hem.

“People can love each other and still make a terrible mess of things.”

Olivia’s eyes filled.

“My mom used to say something like that.”

“What did she say?”

“That loving someone doesn’t mean you automatically know how to love them well.”

I straightened.

“Sounds like she was a smart woman.”

“She was.”

Olivia reached into her bag and removed a small silver wristwatch.

Its leather strap was worn smooth.

“Mom gave me this before she died.”

She turned it over.

On the back, someone had engraved three words.

Make every minute count.

“She wore it for years. When I started nursing school, I used the second hand to practice taking pulse rates.”

“That sounds like a good way to keep her close.”

Olivia fastened it around her wrist.

“Camille told me Dad wanted Mom’s things packed away before the wedding.”

I looked up.

“Packed away?”

“She said the house needed a fresh start.”

A familiar uneasiness passed through me.

During my first week, Camille had instructed me not to touch a locked cedar cabinet in the upstairs sitting room.

She’d called the contents outdated family belongings.

I hadn’t thought much about it.

Now I wondered what was inside.

When we returned to the study, Lorenzo was examining a stack of foundation correspondence.

Camille stood near the fireplace.

She looked relieved to see Olivia wearing ordinary clothes again.

Lorenzo held up a letter.

“Camille, I want to see Rosa’s original instructions for the fund.”

“They’re in the foundation archive.”

“Which archive?”

“The family papers.”

“Where?”

Camille’s expression changed.

“Some of Rosa’s personal things were moved for the wedding renovations.”

Olivia went still.

“You moved Mom’s things?”

“Only into storage.”

“Without telling me?”

“You haven’t lived here for two years.”

Lorenzo rose.

“Where are they?”

Camille hesitated.

Then she looked at me.

“Hannah knows which cabinet.”

I nodded slowly.

“The cedar one upstairs?”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo picked up the small silver key from the desk.

“Then we’ll open it.”

Camille stepped into his path.

“Lorenzo, there’s something I should explain first.”

He stopped.

She looked at Olivia.

“When I reorganized Rosa’s papers, I found a notebook she’d written during her last months.”

Olivia’s lips parted.

“Mom had a notebook?”

Camille nodded.

“She wrote about you. About the fund. About what she wanted after she was gone.”

Lorenzo’s expression hardened.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Camille looked toward the staircase.

“Because some of the things she wrote weren’t what either of you expected.”

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