Chapter 8 - NINE O’CLOCK LIGHT
Six months later.
March had arrived on the North Shore of Long Island, bringing green buds to the oak trees and the sweet, fresh scent of ocean salt through the open windows.
The grandfather clock in the downstairs foyer chimed nine o'clock.
Nine slow, deep, resonant strikes.
I sat on the wide stone porch of our new cottage—a beautiful, four-bedroom stone house located three hundred yards from the main estate mansion, nestled among the flowering apple trees.
A warm spring breeze blew across the porch, carrying the sound of laughter from the main house garden.
Alessandro, Isabella, and Emma were sitting on a large wooden bench under the outdoor lantern light, reading a book together. Isabella was pointing at the pictures, her face bright, her cheeks rosy, her voice clear and happy as she read aloud to her father and my daughter.
Emma was leaning against Isabella’s shoulder, holding Barnaby, fast asleep in the warm night air.
I held a warm cup of herbal tea in my hands, leaning back against the comfortable porch chair, watching them.
My laptop sat on the small side table beside me, displaying the initial blueprints for the Isabella Moretti Children's Advocacy Center—a new non-profit foundation funded by Moretti Holdings to provide legal, medical, and psychological support for traumatized children across the state.
A shadow crossed the porch steps as Alessandro walked up the path, carrying a sleeping Emma in his arms, while Isabella walked beside him holding his hand.
“She fell asleep during chapter three,” Alessandro whispered, smiling as he brought Emma over to me.
I stood up, holding out my arms to take my daughter. “She’s had a long day running through the orchard.”
Alessandro set Emma gently into my arms. Isabella leaned up on her tiptoes, kissed Emma’s cheek softly, and then looked at me.
“Goodnight, Clara,” Isabella said, her dark eyes shining with bright, happy light.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I whispered back. “Sleep well.”
“I always do now,” Isabella said simply, turning and running back toward the main house porch where the lights burned bright and warm against the dark evening sky.
Alessandro lingered on my porch for a moment, looking out over the quiet, peaceful grounds of the estate.
“The night used to be the worst part of the day in this house,” Alessandro said quietly, looking up at the stars above the ocean.
“And now?” I asked, holding my sleeping daughter close to my heart.
May you like
Alessandro turned to me, his face filled with a quiet, powerful peace.
“Now,” he said softly, “nine o'clock is just the time we go home.”
