Chapter 6 - A Seat at the Table
The next morning, the sun broke through the Virginia fog, painting the kitchen of Bellandi House in brilliant shades of amber and gold.
At 7:30 AM, Noah, Lily, and Sophie walked into the kitchen for breakfast.
They stopped dead in their tracks.
Sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, holding a mug of black coffee and reading the morning paper, was their father.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. His eyes were tired, but the icy, distant shadow that had hung over his face for three years was gone.
Beside him, Grace was standing at the stove, flipping golden, fluffy pancakes in a heavy cast-iron skillet.
"Morning," Adrian said softly, setting his paper down.
Sophie blinked her dark eyes. "Daddy? You're in the kitchen?"
"I am," Adrian said, offering a small, shy smile—a smile his children hadn't seen since their mother died. "Grace made blueberry pancakes. And she said if I don't eat three of them, the angels get mad."
Lily gasped, a bright, beautiful grin spreading across her face. She ran across the room and jumped onto the stool beside him. "She told you about the angels too?!"
"She did," Adrian laughed softly, wrapping his arm around Lily’s shoulders and pulling her close.
Noah hesitated for a moment, then walked over and sat on the stool to Adrian’s right. Adrian reached out and rested his large, calloused hand on Noah’s head, ruffling his hair gently. Noah didn't pull away; he leaned into his father’s touch, a quiet breath of relief escaping his young chest.
Grace set a large platter of steaming pancakes, crispy bacon, and fresh berries in the center of the island.
In the middle of the platter sat a small silver picture frame.
Inside was the photograph Sophie had kept in her sweater pocket—Elena laughing in their old kitchen, covered in flour.
Noah stared at the photograph. Then he looked at his father.
Adrian looked at his late wife’s face. Tears welled in his eyes, but this time, he didn't turn away. He reached out, touched the glass of the frame gently, and smiled.
"Your mother made the worst pancakes in North America," Adrian said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "They were always burnt on the outside and raw in the middle."
Sophie giggled, leaning her head against his arm. "Really?"
"Really," Adrian smiled, a tear finally slipping down his cheek. "But she made them with so much love... we ate every single bite."
For the next hour, the kitchen of Bellandi House was filled with something it hadn't heard in three long years: story after story about Elena, punctuated by bright, ringing laughter and the clinking of forks against plates.
Standing by the sink, wiping down a frying pan, Grace watched them.
She felt a quiet hand gently touch her waist.
She turned. Adrian was standing beside her.
His blue eyes were locked onto hers, filled with a deep, searing intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
"Thank you, Grace," he murmured, his voice low and intimate.
"I’m just doing my job, Mr. Bellandi," she whispered.
May you like
Adrian stepped closer, his broad body brushing against hers. He reached up and gently wiped a trace of flour from her cheek with his thumb, his fingers lingering on her soft skin.
"No," he said softly, looking down at her full lips. "You saved my children. And you brought me back from the dead."
