Chapter 10 - The Master of the House
By late February, the ice on the lake began to crack with long, booming reports that sounded like distant cannon fire under the early spring sun.
The service courtyard of the Moretti estate was dry, swept clean of ice and pine oil, the gray slate flags shining beneath a pale, warm sky that smelled of damp earth and melting snow.
At two in the afternoon, a new delivery truck arrived from Chicago.
It was a soft-sided delivery van carrying six cases of wine from France and three large wooden crates of dried fruit from California.
The driver—a young man from the city who had never been to the Moretti estate before—jumped out of the cab carrying a clipboard and a heavy iron crowbar for opening the crates.
As he walked past the stone archway toward the kitchen doors, he dropped his crowbar against the slate.
CLANG!
The sharp, metallic ring echoed off the stone walls of the courtyard.
The driver stopped, reaching down to pick up his tool.
From the shade of the harness shop door, a massive black shape moved into the sunlight.
Bruno walked out onto the slate.
He was un-leaded. His black coat gleamed like polished jet under the sun. He walked with a slow, heavy grace, his tail swinging in a lazy arc, his ears sitting forward on his broad skull.
The delivery driver went completely white. He dropped his clipboard into the slush. “Jesus... Mary... and Joseph.”
He reached for the iron crowbar on the ground, his face wild with panic.
“Don't pick that up,” a voice called out from the wash-house door.
Clara Hayes stepped out into the light.
She was dressed in a dark green wool dress that fit her waist perfectly, with a small silver acorn brooch pinned to her collar. Her hair was piled high in a soft, elegant knot, and she carried a small leather ledger in her left hand.
The driver froze, his hand six inches from the iron bar. “Lady... that’s... that’s a killer dog! I read about him in the papers!”
“He isn't a killer,” Clara said smoothly, walking past the driver without a second glance. “He just doesn't like loud noises.”
She stopped near the kitchen steps.
Bruno walked up beside her, nudging his broad snout into her hand until she reached down and scratched him behind his left ear.
The heavy front doors of the residence opened.
Matteo Moretti walked out onto the terrace. He wore a plain white linen shirt, dark trousers, and no coat against the soft spring air. He carried a silver tray with two tall glasses of cold lemonade and a small plate of fresh butter cakes that Mrs. Gable had baked that morning.
He walked down the stone steps.
He did not look like the feared Chicago boss whose name made men check over their shoulders. He looked like a man walking through his own garden on a Sunday afternoon.
He set the silver tray down on the low stone wall near Clara.
“The wine is here?” Matteo asked her.
“Six cases,” Clara said, checking her ledger with a silver pen. “And the fruit from California.”
Matteo picked up one of the glasses of lemonade and handed it to her. His long fingers brushed hers as she took the glass, lingering until she looked up into his face and smiled.
The delivery driver stood by his truck with his mouth wide open, staring at the boss of northern Illinois carrying lemonade to a girl in a green dress while a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound black monster sat peacefully at her feet, eating a piece of butter cake out of her hand.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Moretti?” the driver stammered, his voice shaking.
Matteo turned his head slowly. He looked at the driver, then at the iron crowbar lying on the ground, then back at Clara.
“Ask Mrs. Moretti,” Matteo said softly. “She runs the house.”
Clara looked at Matteo, her dark eyes shining with a deep, quiet warmth that had nothing to do with debts, ledgers, or six days of clumsiness in the slush.
“The fruit goes to the cellar,” Clara told the driver, her voice clear and cool as lake water. “And don't drop your iron again. You’ll make the dog think he needs to clean up the yard.”
The driver didn't wait to be told twice. He grabbed his crates and hurried into the kitchen wing as if the devil himself were behind him.
Matteo leaned against the stone wall beside Clara, taking a sip from his glass while his left hand rested comfortably on Bruno’s broad, black head.
“Mrs. Moretti,” Matteo murmured under his breath, testing the sound of the words against the spring wind.
Clara took a sip of her lemonade, her shoulder resting lightly against his arm.
“It has a nice ring to it,” she said.
“It sounds expensive,” Matteo replied, his pale eyes crinkling at the corners with a slow, dry humor.
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“Everything in this house is expensive,” Clara said, leaning her head against his shoulder while the spring sun warmed the stone beneath their feet. “Except the rope.”
Bruno let out one final, long, deep sigh of pure contentment, stretched his dark paws out across the warm slate, and fell fast asleep at their feet.
