Chapter 9 - The Ice on the Lake
On the second of January, the lake froze solid for three miles out from the shoreline.
The ice was blue, thick, and smooth as polished steel, swept clear of snow by the constant, fierce north wind that blew down from Canada.
Clara walked along the high bluff near the edge of the estate, dressed in a long coat of dark gray wool that Matteo had ordered for her from a tailor in the city. It had broad bone buttons, a high fur collar that protected her ears, and deep pockets lined with soft gray velvet.
Bruno ran thirty yards ahead of her on the frozen bluff.
He was no longer the dripping, shivering wreck of soap and muscle that had lay on the courtyard slate six weeks ago. His coat was thick, dense, and glossy as black enamel; his legs moved with a long, powerful stride that had no limp in it; and his broad tail whipped happily against the frosted grass as he sniffed at the frozen rabbit tracks near the fence line.
Behind Clara came the sound of heavy boots on the hard ground.
She didn't turn around. She knew the rhythm of those steps.
Matteo walked up beside her. He wore his heavy cashmere coat, his hands tucked into his pockets, his collar turned up against the wind.
He stopped at the edge of the bluff, looking out over the vast, blue expanse of frozen water toward the gray horizon.
“The city council voted this morning,” Matteo said quietly.
Clara looked at his side profile—the sharp jaw, the straight nose, the small silver threads that were beginning to show at his temples.
“The shipping docks?” she asked.
“The docks are approved,” Matteo said. “Bianca’s father signed the authorization at nine o'clock.”
Clara looked down at her gloved hands. “And Miss Russo?”
Matteo took one hand out of his pocket and pulled a small velvet box from his coat. He opened it with his thumb.
Inside lay a heavy ring of white gold, set with a single, clear diamond the size of a hazelnut.
Clara’s chest tightened. She turned her face back toward the frozen lake, refusing to let him see the sudden, sharp sting in her eyes.
“It’s very large,” Clara said, her voice small against the wind.
Matteo didn't look at the ring. He looked at her profile.
“It belonged to her mother,” Matteo said flatly. “I returned it to her father thirty minutes ago, along with his five hundred thousand dollar contribution to my election fund.”
Clara turned her head back to him so fast her fur collar brushed his cheek.
“You... you broke the engagement?”
“There was no engagement,” Matteo said, his voice completely level. “There was only a business arrangement that became too expensive to maintain.”
He closed the velvet box with a sharp snap and threw it out over the edge of the bluff.
The small black box fell seventy feet through the cold air, striking the blue ice of the lake with a tiny, distant sound before sliding three hundred yards out into the white emptiness.
Clara watched it go, her mouth slightly open. “That was... that was worth fifty thousand dollars.”
“It was worth nothing,” Matteo said, stepping closer to her, his shoulder blocking the cold lake wind. “It made a noise every time she walked into a room.”
Clara couldn't help it. A small, quick laugh escaped her lips—the first real laugh he had ever heard from her.
Matteo looked down at her face—at her red cheeks, her dark eyes sparkling under the gray fur collar, her small, straight nose dusted with tiny freckles from the cold sun.
His expression softened until his face looked like that of a completely different man.
“You laughed,” he murmured.
“You threw fifty thousand dollars into a frozen lake because it made too much noise,” Clara said, shaking her head. “You’re completely insane, Mr. Moretti.”
“Matteo,” he corrected her.
Clara paused. The wind blew a wisp of dark hair across her mouth.
“Matteo,” she repeated softly.
He reached out his leather-gloved hand and brushed the wisp of hair away from her lip, his thumb resting for two seconds against the warm, soft curve of her cheek.
Bruno came trotting back up the path, holding a massive, frozen pine cone in his teeth. He dropped it at Matteo’s boots, sat down heavily on Clara’s right shoe, and looked up at them both with his broad tongue hanging out in the cold air.
Matteo looked down at the dog, then back at Clara.
“He’s still sitting on your shoe,” Matteo observed.
“He thinks I’m going to fall over,” Clara said.
“Are you?”
May you like
Clara looked up into his pale, clear blue eyes—eyes that held no threat, no coldness, and no debt anymore.
“Not today,” she said.
