Chapter 1 - The Shoes Beneath the Table“Those shoes are not going anywhere near my engagement dinner.”
Vivienne Ashford said it while fastening a diamond necklace around her throat.
Across the marble foyer stood an elderly man in a worn navy overcoat, holding a small cardboard box tied with brown string.
His name was Walter Brennan.
He was eighty years old.
His shoulders were stooped.
His hands were rough and permanently bent from decades of working with leather.
And he had traveled nearly four hours from Pennsylvania to attend the engagement celebration of Sebastian Romano.
“Mr. Brennan has an invitation, ma'am,” I said.
Vivienne glanced toward the old man.
Then at the box.
“He brought shoes?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
She laughed.
“We have imported Italian designers making Sebastian's wedding wardrobe.”
I kept my voice low.
“He says the shoes belonged to Mr. Romano when he was little.”
Vivienne's smile disappeared.
“Then they're probably forty years out of fashion.”
She stepped closer.
“Grace, take him to the basement staff lounge. Give him something to eat. And make sure Sebastian doesn't see that ridiculous box.”
My name is Grace Miller.
I was twenty-seven years old and had worked housekeeping in Sebastian Romano's Connecticut mansion for eleven months.
My mother was recovering from a stroke.
Every Friday, another medical bill arrived.
Every extra shift mattered.
Normally, I followed Vivienne's instructions without arguing.
But Walter Brennan had dressed carefully for tonight.
He wore a clean white shirt beneath his old coat.
His shoes had been polished.
And the cardboard box was wrapped so carefully that I couldn't imagine throwing it away.
“Could he at least sit with the other guests?” I asked.
Vivienne's eyes narrowed.
“He repaired shoes for Sebastian's father.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“He was a tradesman.”
She lowered her voice.
“He is not sitting beside men who control half the Atlantic shipping industry.”
I looked toward Walter.
He was standing quietly near the entrance, pretending not to hear.
Vivienne noticed my hesitation.
“Grace.”
“Yes?”
“If you want to keep your job, you'll stop making this difficult.”
Then she pointed toward the box.
“And whatever you do, don't let Sebastian open that.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
Her expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I noticed.
“Because I said so.”
Ten minutes later, I found Walter sitting alone near the service hallway.
He was holding the box on his knees.
When he saw me, he smiled.
“Did Sebastian get the shoes?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Oh.”
His smile faded.
I sat beside him.
“Can I ask why they're important?”
Walter looked down at the box.
“His father made them.”
I frowned.
“I thought you were the shoemaker.”
Walter chuckled.
“I was. But Michael Romano wanted to learn.”
He untied the string.
Inside lay a pair of tiny brown leather shoes.
The stitching was uneven.
One sole was slightly crooked.
And beneath the left heel was a small silver star.
I smiled.
“They're beautiful.”
Walter shook his head.
“They're terrible.”
I laughed.
He smiled.
“Michael had never stitched leather before. He stayed in my shop until three in the morning trying to finish them.”
“For Sebastian?”
Walter nodded.
“His first birthday.”
I looked at the shoes again.
“Why didn't his father give them to him?”
Walter's expression changed.
“He did.”
“Then why do you have them?”
The old man hesitated.
“Because he asked me to keep them after the funeral.”
Michael Romano had been murdered thirty-six years earlier.
Sebastian had been only four.
Everyone in the household knew the story.
His father had died in a warehouse explosion during a violent dispute between rival families.
Walter gently turned over the left shoe.
“Michael came to my shop three days before he died.”
I waited.
“He told me that if anything happened to him, I was to give these back to Sebastian when he was old enough to understand.”
“Understand what?”
Walter looked toward the ballroom.
“Why his father was afraid.”
Before I could ask another question, the dinner announcement sounded.
Walter closed the box.
“I suppose I should leave.”
I looked toward the ballroom.
Then at his invitation.
“No.”
He frowned.
“Miss?”
I picked up the box.
“Come with me.”
The ballroom was filled with forty guests.
Sebastian Romano stood beside the head table.
He was forty-one.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Wearing a black tuxedo.
A man whose name could silence an entire room.
Vivienne stood beside him in a silver gown.
When she saw us, her expression hardened.
“Grace.”
I kept walking.
“Grace, I told you where to seat him.”
Before I could answer, Sebastian turned.
He saw Walter.
Then stopped moving.
“Mr. Brennan?”
The old man smiled.
“Hello, Sebastian.”
Sebastian pushed his chair back.
He crossed the room.
Then embraced Walter.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
When Sebastian stepped back, his eyes were wet.
“You should have called me.”
Walter chuckled.
“And have your security men frighten my neighbors?”
Sebastian smiled.
Then he noticed the box.
His expression changed.
“What's that?”
Walter held it out.
“Something your father made.”
Sebastian opened the lid.
He stared at the little brown shoes.
Then slowly reached inside.
His fingers stopped on the silver star.
“I remember these.”
Walter nodded.
“You wore them everywhere.”
Sebastian swallowed.
“My father made them?”
“With his own hands.”
The room became silent.
Vivienne stepped forward.
“How sweet. Sebastian, darling, perhaps we can put them in a display case tomorrow.”
Sebastian didn't look at her.
He turned the left shoe over.
Then frowned.
“What's this?”
Walter's face changed.
“What?”
Sebastian pointed toward the sole.
“There are two layers of leather.”
Walter nodded slowly.
“Your father asked me to stitch them together.”
Sebastian looked up.
“Why?”
Walter reached into his coat.
He removed a small silver tool.
Then handed it to Sebastian.
“Open the heel.”
Vivienne immediately stepped forward.
“Sebastian, don't ruin them.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“They're sentimental.”
He stared at her for a moment.
Then turned back to the shoe.
Carefully, he lifted the leather seam.
Something slipped out.
A folded piece of paper.
Yellowed.
Thin.
Sebastian unfolded it.
His expression changed.
He read the first line.
Then stopped.
“That's my father's handwriting.”
Walter nodded.
Sebastian read silently.
His jaw tightened.
Then he looked toward Vivienne.
“Why is your father's name written here?”
Vivienne went pale.
Sebastian slowly stood.
“Vivienne?”
She forced a smile.
“Your father knew many people.”
Sebastian looked back at the letter.
Then at Walter.
“What was my father afraid of?”
Walter's eyes filled with tears.
“He discovered someone had been taking money from the family.”
Sebastian stared.
“Who?”
Walter lowered his voice.
“Someone he trusted.”
Sebastian looked toward Vivienne again.
She stepped backward.
Then Walter said something that made the entire room go silent.
“Sebastian, your father didn't die in that warehouse because of a rival family.”
He looked at the shoes.
“He went there because someone promised to return the little girl they had taken from your mother.”
Sebastian stopped breathing.
“What little girl?”
Walter reached into his coat again.
May you like
And removed a photograph.
“Your sister.”
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