by T. K. Leigh
What is meant to be will be.
Before I stepped foot on that plane to Rome, I never understood why people followed religion or believed in what I considered to be ridiculous ideas, such as fate. It seemed like just an excuse to put all accountability for your actions on some higher power, to not be held to answer for your own failings or misgivings. But it made sense now. Sometimes life just sucked and you wanted to believe there was a reason for everything. Sometimes you needed to allow a higher power to take the wheel for a minute. Sometimes you just needed to be reminded that the universe was a huge place and you were nothing more than a tiny speck in it.
I continued up the stairs, then pulled one of the doors open and walked inside. Silence and serenity instantly surrounded me. Gone was the noise of cars, honking horns, and yelling voices. In here, it was just me…and God. I couldn’t say goodbye to Gabriella in person. But I could do it here, and I knew she’d hear me.
I stepped farther into the church, which was empty, apart from a few nuns praying in the pews. One of them must have sensed my presence because she did the sign of the cross and slowly rose. When she emerged into the aisle, she genuflected before the altar, then turned around, heading toward me.
I considered leaving, thinking I may be intruding, but I felt compelled to do this, to light a candle for Gabriella.
“Good evening, dear,” the woman said kindly. She wore a dark habit, a wooden cross hanging from her neck. She had thin lips and dark eyes, little wisps of white hair visible from under her head covering. “Have you come for confession?”
I opened my mouth and shook my head as I peered at her, my brow wrinkling. “I’m sorry. I’m not Catholic. I just…” I paused, drawing in a deep breath. “I just learned someone I cared for passed away. She was Catholic, so I wanted to light a candle for her. I think she would have wanted me to do that.”
The nun reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it. “Of course. Come with me.” She kept my hand enclosed in hers as she led me into the sanctuary and toward a stained glass window depicting the first station of the cross. Below it sat a devotional area, just like at Dante’s church in Italy. But only a few candles had been lit here, unlike in Italy where many had been burning, even early in the morning. This was yet another reminder of the different cultures we grew up in and came from.
I paused as we approached the area, then knelt on the cushioned kneeler in front of me. The nun handed me one of the long matches and I struck it. A flame immediately sparked to life. I held it up to one of the wicks, watching the flame dance in front of me as I lit the candle.
“Do you mind if I light a candle for your friend…?” The nun’s eyebrows rose.
“Gabriella,” I said, then nodded, giving her permission.
“What a beautiful name.” She joined me, striking a match, lighting yet another candle.
“She was a beautiful person, a beautiful soul.”
She simply nodded, then folded her hands in front of her, leaning her head on them, mimicking the pose I found Dante in that day in Italy. “Would you like to pray with me?” she asked when she sensed me studying her.
“I don’t know how,” I answered honestly.
“That’s okay.” She gave me an encouraging smile. I placed my hands in front of me, mirroring her pose, closing my eyes. “Eternal rest grant unto Gabriella, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” She paused, then added, “Amen.”
Unsure what else to do, I repeated, “Amen.”
I lifted my head, staring at the candles for several more minutes. The chill I felt when I first learned of Gabriella’s passing had miraculously been replaced by a feeling of warmth and comfort. I hoped this was her way of letting me know she was okay, that she wasn’t in pain anymore, that she would look out for Dante until our paths finally crossed again.
Drawing in a long breath, I slowly stood, meeting the nun’s eyes. “Thank you.”
“Of course, dear.” She raised herself to her feet. “Our door is always open.”
I nodded slightly, then began to turn, but stopped myself, facing her once more. “Do you mind if I take a photo of the candles? She was my friend’s mother. They’re in Italy. I just… I just want him to know I was thinking about him. That even though I couldn’t be there to say goodbye in person—”
She placed her hand on my arm, cutting me off. “Of course.”
“Thank you.” I smiled, pulling my phone out of my purse. Making sure to capture the moment as best as I could, I snapped a photo of the two candles we lit.
Once I was back in the car, I steered it in the opposite direction of my parents’ house. I didn’t want to be around them. Not tonight. Instead, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant in Woodland Hills and headed into the bar. Enjoying a glass of wine probably didn’t sound like an appropriate way to cope with someone’s passing, but I knew enough to know Gabriella wouldn’t have wanted me to mourn her. She would have wanted me to do something to celebrate her life. And what better way to do that than to have a glass of wine and good food?
After I placed my order with the bartender and a glass of wine appeared in front of me, I pulled my phone out and opened the Instagram app, trying to come up with a caption that properly conveyed what I wanted to say. I stared at the photo of the candles, unsure how to put my feelings into words. Sometimes simple was better. Sometimes you just needed to speak from the heart. So that was what I did.
“Thank you for showing me what love looks like. Your light will always shine in my heart because of that.”
I studied it, hoping it was good enough, then tagged Dante in the photo, posting it. I put my phone on the bar and took a sip of my wine.
“Ellie?” a voice said.
I turned to my left, seeing a man with dirty blond hair, sky blue eyes, and a perfectly tailored suit approach the bar. “Quinn?”
“It is you,” he breathed, taking the empty seat next to me. “I thought it was, but the hair threw me for a loop.”
I laughed slightly, toying with one of my locks. “I changed it back to its natural color.”
“Nice,” he said, signaling the bartender. “It looks good on you.”
“What are you doing here? Woodland Hills is a bit far from O’Connell and Greene, isn’t it?” I asked after he placed his drink order.
I met Quinn my first month as an associate at my old law firm. He was opposing counsel on a case and had proven to be quite the worthy adversary. However, he was still no match for my tenacity and drive, not to mention the fact that I routinely worked eighty-hour weeks because I didn’t like being home with Brock. Despite representing clients with opposing viewpoints, we formed a friendship.
“I quit about a year ago and started my own firm in Encino. I got tired of someone else telling me which cases to take and making me ask some of my clients to mortgage their houses just to pay our legal fees. I was just out here for a meeting.” He nodded in appreciation as the bartender placed his beer in front of him. “How about you?” he asked hesitantly after taking a sip. He’d probably heard I was fired. Everyone seemed to know about that, considering getting fired from Sullivan, Sullivan & Grace was the equivalent of being blacklisted, as I’d learned over the past several weeks.
“Oh, you know…” I smiled sweetly. “Stood my politician fiancé up at the altar, so now no law firm will touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
He slowly shook his head, his lips pinching together as they formed into a small, sympathetic smile.
“No one seems to care I have a law degree from Georgetown and worked at one of the top law firms in the state. I’m still not qualified for their open positions.” My voice oozed with sarcasm before my contrived smile fell, my expression becoming despondent. “Maybe it’s a sign I’m not supposed
to be doing this.”
The atmosphere between us grew thick as I stared at all the bottles of liquor behind the bar, not really seeing anything. I’d never actually admitted that to myself before. While I’d grown extremely frustrated with the fact that not one single firm had called to set up an interview, I still pushed forward. How much longer could I do this? Maybe I needed to look elsewhere, do something different before I ended up flipping burgers at a fast food restaurant. I just didn’t know if I was good at anything else. I’d never done anything else. I never trained for anything else. This was the plan for my life since day one. What was I supposed to do now?
I toyed with my wine glass, swirling it on the bar, straightening my shoulders. I didn’t want Quinn to pity me. He’d successfully broken away from one of the top law firms in the state, even though he was only five years older than me. I could do the same. Maybe running into him was fate’s way of telling me I should just start my own practice.
“I can’t pay you what you’re used to making.” Quinn’s voice cut into my thoughts.
I practically choked on my wine as I shot my wide eyes to him. “Wait. What?”
“And it’s definitely not as glamorous as Sullivan. There’s no monthly stipend or company car. Your office will probably be no bigger than a bathroom, and you’ll be handling a lot of workers’ comp and social security cases. It’s a job, though.”
I studied him, wondering if I heard him correctly or if my mind was playing tricks on me. “What exactly are you saying, Quinn?”
He laughed slightly. “Ellie, you’re a brilliant attorney. You take no prisoners in negotiations. I was going over my firm’s caseload earlier and came to the conclusion I need to add another attorney. It just so happens you’re an attorney who needs a job. What do you say?”
I blinked repeatedly, my jaw becoming slack as my brain struggled to tell my mouth to move, my voice box to vibrate and make sound.
“Ellie?” he asked.
I quickly snapped out of my stupor and hopped off my barstool, flinging my arms around his neck. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” I squealed in an uncharacteristic move, but I had no idea how else to express my overwhelming gratitude to this man. Dante believed everything happened for a reason, including his daughter’s death. Maybe fate gave me a reason to skip my parents’ party so I’d run into Quinn.
“Does this mean you’ll take the job?” He chuckled.
I stepped back, releasing my hold on him, a huge smile on my face. “When can I start?”
Chapter Nine
“You do know you get paid the same regardless of how many hours you work, correct?” Quinn’s voice cut through the silence as I took notes on a deposition I’d been looking over.
I glanced up to see him leaning on the doorjamb of my new office. He wasn’t lying when he said it wouldn’t be any bigger than a bathroom, but it didn’t matter. It was a job. While I never saw myself practicing in workers’ compensation or social security law, it was a welcome change of pace from corporate law, and he’d given me flexibility to branch out into other areas in the future.
“I know,” I responded, smiling. “It’s just a new area for me, so I’m trying to get caught up on procedure and case law.”
“You’ll figure it out, Ellie.” He winked. “Why don’t you call it a night? Most of the staff gets together at The Iron Tap for Happy Hour on Thursdays. You should come.”
I hesitated. I’d planned to go pick out some new furniture for the apartment I just signed a lease on. Now that I had a job with a steady income, I used the rest of my savings to put down the first month’s rent and security deposit on a small studio apartment in a complex a mile or so from the office. I even bought a car.
Mila had insisted it was okay if I stayed with them and continued to use Steven’s car a little bit longer, but there was this part of me that thought if I finally had a job, a place of my own, and a car, I’d be that much closer to fate bringing Dante and me back together.
“Come on,” Quinn urged, sensing my reluctance. “You need a break. Based on your reputation over at Sullivan, I knew you were a bit of a workaholic, but I didn’t think you’d be pulling sixteen-hour days your second week here.”
“I don’t mind. It keeps me out of trouble,” I joked, flashing him a fabricated smile.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest, narrowing his eyes at me. Based on the look on his face, I had a feeling he wasn’t going to leave unless I agreed to go with him.
“Fine,” I sighed. “Let me just finish reading this deposition and I’ll meet you there, okay? Fifteen minutes.”
His smile brightened. “Perfect. Are you okay to lock up?”
“You bet.”
“See you in a bit, Ellie.” He pushed off the doorjamb and disappeared down the hallway.
I returned to the papers in front of me, trying to get back into the groove, but my concentration was elsewhere. After about ten minutes of reading words that felt like a foreign language, nothing sinking in, I pushed back from my desk, grabbed my purse, and headed out of the office.
Waving goodnight to the security guard in the lobby, I stepped into the warm California night. The bar was about five blocks up the street and I considered driving, but it was a pleasant evening. I’d spent too much time cooped up in that office trying to get caught up. I could use the fresh air.
I heard my phone beep as I passed a coffee shop and reached into my purse, pulling it out. When I saw Dante had tagged me in an Instagram post, those butterflies that had taken up residence in my stomach began flapping their relentless wings. After learning of his mother’s death, I’d given him space to mourn her, and the posts had stopped for a few days while he did so. But a week ago, they started again, his words and images even more loving, endearing, and sensual, if that were at all possible.
Slowing my steps, I opened the app, biting back the grin struggling to break free as I stared at the exterior shot of the museum in Rome where we’d attended the gala. Memories of what we’d done in one of the bathrooms flooded back and a warmth rushed over me, my cheeks flushing. Then I read the caption.
“Can one desire too much of a good thing?” —William Shakespeare, As You Like It.
“Oh, Dante,” I exhaled. “Why do you have to be so perfect? And so far away?” Looking up, I stared into space, trying to come up with a proper response, when I noticed a familiar car pull up and park a block ahead.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. A black Mercedes wasn’t exactly a rare car in this town. But when I saw my father step out of the driver’s seat and hurry into a shady-looking bar, my curiosity got the best of me. I knew what I was about to do may be incredibly stupid, but I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe I was supposed to leave work early so I could see him. Maybe fate knew I was struggling for answers as to whether or not he was involved in Lilly’s death. If I followed him into the bar, maybe I would get those answers. So that was what I did.
The entire place was dimly lit, the perfect spot for someone who didn’t want to be seen. The air was dank with the faint aroma of stale cigarette smoke, even though I doubted anyone had smoked in here in years. Green carpeting covered the floor, the shade matching the color of the felt on the few pool tables toward the back of the small room. A u-shaped bar made up the center, a dozen or so booths lining the walls. I noticed my father sitting alone in a booth at the very rear of the bar, what I assumed to be a scotch in front of him.
My suspicions only increased with each passing moment that I remained in this place, discreetly studying my father’s demeanor. He had no reason to be in Encino. His office was located in downtown LA, and he lived in Calabasas. The only reason he was even in California on a Thursday was because the Senate wasn’t in session this month. He was normally only home Fridays through Mondays. Given everything I knew about him, it seemed strange he would be at a crappy bar
in this town…unless he was up to something.
“Can I help you?” a scruff voice called out, and I quickly snapped out of my thoughts. Stepping toward the bar, I shielded my face with my hair, hoping my father hadn’t seen me.
“Whiskey and soda, please.” I hastily fished my wallet out of my purse, doing my best not to draw too much attention to myself.
“You got it.” The bartender grabbed a bottle off the counter and poured the dark liquor into a rocks glass. After adding a bit of soda, he set it down in front of me. I handed him a $20 bill.
“Keep the change.”
“Rough day?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled in a curt voice, giving off the impression that I wanted to be left alone. Thankfully, the bartender picked up on that. I retreated from him and kept my eyes downcast as I headed down the empty bar, hoisting myself onto one of the stools closer to where my father sat. I carefully glanced over my shoulder at him, sensing his unease and frustration.
For as long as I could remember, he’d been confident, assured, put-together. The way he constantly toyed with the glass in front of him, as if needing something to do with his hands, made me think he was slowly losing control of everything.
I’d only been sitting there a few seconds when the door opened again and a man I estimated to be about fifty hurried inside, a crazed expression on his face. His dark hair was disheveled, his clothes giving the impression that he didn’t care much about his appearance. He could have just been another local needing something to take the edge off after a bad day, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling in my gut that this man was the reason my father was here.
The man scanned the bar, his eyes eventually landing on my father. He immediately rushed toward him and ducked into the booth, keeping his head down. His legs nervously bounced as he bit his nails and glanced over his shoulder, jittery, maybe even a little paranoid.
I quickly snapped my attention back to the Dodgers game playing on the TV hanging over the bar, straightening my spine as I took a sip of my drink. I did my best to keep an ear turned toward my father and this mystery man, hoping to overhear their discussion. I feared if I got any closer, he’d recognize me.