Mrs. Moretti’s spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered onto her plate. And then, beneath the table where no one could see, her left hand began to move — slowly, deliberately, in the grammar of a language only I could read.
I don’t want to go.
I stepped closer with the coffee pot. “Mrs. Moretti?” Her fingers moved again, urgent this time. Help me.
That was when Vanessa’s hand closed around my wrist, hard enough to leave a mark. “Enough,” she said, still smiling for the guests. “You’re upsetting her.”
I tried to explain. She was telling me something. She didn’t want to leave her home.
Vanessa laughed, bright and final. “Oh, please. Pack your things, Claire. You’re fired.”
My knees went weak, and it wasn’t only pride. My younger sister’s dental surgery was scheduled for Monday. Every dollar I had saved was tied to this job. But Mrs. Moretti was gripping my sleeve with a strength I hadn’t known she still had, and her eyes were full of naked fear.
“She doesn’t want to leave,” I said.
Vanessa’s smile vanished. That was when Luca Moretti spoke for the first time.