Chapter 7 - Dawn at the EstateThe first amber rays of dawn pierced through the heavy morning fog over the Moretti estate, casting a warm, golden glow across the manicured lawns and the detached brick garage at the end of the cobblestone drive.
By 7:00 a.m., a large flatbed delivery truck idling quietly in the driveway had unloaded every single piece of heavy machinery, tool chest, and oak panel back into its rightful place inside the workshop.
When Matteo woke up at 7:30 a.m. and trudged down to the kitchen in his oversized dinosaur pajamas, he looked like a ghost had broken into his bedroom.
I was standing at the island pouring fresh orange juice when he rubbed his eyes and stared out the kitchen window toward the garage.
“Claire...” he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. “Is that... is that the lathe?”
“Go look for yourself,” I smiled, handing him a warm mug of cocoa.
The boy didn't wait. He bolted out the back kitchen door in his bare feet, sprinting across the dewy grass straight toward the open garage doors.
I followed him at a slower pace, wrapping a light cardigan around my shoulders.
As I approached the garage, I saw Luca standing inside the sunlit workshop. He had shed his dress shirt, wearing only a grey t-shirt and work jeans, his sleeves rolled up, working with a set of wrenches to secure the heavy cast-iron drill press back onto its reinforced concrete mount.
Matteo stood frozen in the center of the room, staring in awe. Every single tool was back on the pegboard. The socket sets gleamed in the morning light. And right in the center of the room, standing proudly against the back wall, was the 1987 oak workbench.
The loose board Matteo had carved for his box had been carefully re-secured with a new brass hinge, leaving a small, neat compartment visible underneath.
Luca wiped grease from his forehead with the back of his arm, turning around to see his son standing in the doorway.
“Well?” Luca asked, a warm, genuine smile breaking across his face. “What do you think, partner? Did we lose anything?”
Matteo didn't answer with words. He sprinted across the concrete floor and threw his arms around his father’s waist, burying his face in Luca’s shirt.
Luca wrapped his arms around the boy, lifting him slightly off the ground, resting his chin on Matteo’s dark curls.
“Thank you, Dad,” the boy choked out softly.
“Thank you for not letting me forget what really matters, son,” Luca replied, his voice thick with emotion.
He pulled back, kneeling down to Matteo’s eye level. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the scorched wooden box Matteo had made the night before.
“Now,” Luca said, opening the lid. “Where do you think we should put Grandpa’s fountain pen?”
Matteo’s eyes lit up. He reached down, grabbing the gold fountain pen from his father’s desk—which Luca must have retrieved earlier—and carefully slid it into the narrow compartment inside the box.
It fit with absolute, flawless perfection.
Luca stood up, looking across the garage toward the doorway where I stood watching quietly. He caught my eye, and for the first time since I had started working at the estate a year ago, I saw a look of profound, unshielded gratitude wash over his face.
May you like
He nodded slowly, raising his hand in a silent gesture of thanks.
I smiled back, turning away to give them their Saturday morning back. The drama of the engagement party was dead and buried, Vanessa and her brother were permanently out of the picture, and the Moretti garage was finally whole again.
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