Chapter 14 - The Last Caldwell Christmas
Eleanor died at eighty-one.
Peacefully.
In her own bed.
Sean held one hand.
Anna held the other.
Her last lucid conversation was with Anna.
“You know,” Eleanor whispered, “I still hate that blue dress.”
Anna laughed.
“You’re dying and still criticizing clothes?”
“It washes you out.”
“Unbelievable.”
Eleanor smiled weakly.
Then became serious.
“I’m sorry.”
Anna squeezed her hand.
“I know.”
“For more than the chair.”
“I know.”
“I wasted years being afraid there wasn’t enough love.”
Anna’s eyes filled.
Eleanor looked toward Sean asleep in the chair.
“You taught him better.”
“No.”
Anna shook her head.
“He chose better.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Always correcting me.”
“Someone had to.”
Her last words to Anna were simple.
“Thank you for staying when staying finally became your choice.”
Anna cried.
Eleanor died hours later.
The funeral was small.
No public spectacle.
At the reception, the family gathered around a long table.
Sean stopped suddenly.
Anna knew why.
Twelve chairs.
Thirteen people.
For a moment, time folded.
Then Sean laughed.
Actually laughed.
Richard understood next.
Melissa covered her face.
“Oh my God.”
David pulled another chair from the wall.
Grace, now nine, looked confused.
“What?”
Sean kissed her forehead.
“Very old family joke.”
Anna sat.
The thirteenth chair fit easily.
Of course it did.
It always could have.
That was the tragedy.
Not scarcity.
Choice.
After Eleanor’s death, Sean inherited a large portion of family assets.
He surprised Anna by selling the old family estate.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It feels like a museum to people we used to be.”
They donated part of the proceeds to the Second Seat Fellowship.
Richard expanded the independent foundation.
Melissa became annoyingly responsible.
Life moved.
Then Sean was diagnosed with early-stage prostate cancer at fifty-two.
Treatable.
High survival rate.
Anna still panicked.
Hospitals have a way of ignoring statistics when someone you love wears the bracelet.
Sean took her hand.
“I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
Surgery went well.
Recovery did too.
During one sleepless night, Sean said, “If I die—”
“Don’t.”
“Anna.”
“No.”
He smiled faintly.
“You still interrupt.”
“Constantly.”
“If I die someday, I need you to know something.”
She looked at him.
“I don’t regret Rome.”
Anna stared.
“That is a dangerous statement from a hospital bed.”
He laughed.
Then winced.
“I regret what I did.”
“Better.”
“But if that night hadn’t broken the old marriage, I don’t know if we would have built this one.”
Anna’s eyes filled.
“I’ve thought that too.”
Sean smiled.
“Terrible people make excellent catalysts.”
“You were not terrible.”
“I was pretty bad.”
“Fair.”
He recovered.
Years passed.
Grace left for college.
North Star expanded into fourteen countries.
Anna eventually reduced her workload.
Not because Sean asked.
Because she wanted mornings.
Gardening.
Travel without clients.
At sixty, Anna and Sean returned to Rome again.
Paolo had retired.
His daughter ran the restaurant.
The plaque remained.
THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM.
They ate alone.
Two chairs.
One extra nearby.
Anna smiled.
Sean followed her gaze.
“You know, I think we’ve become unbearably symbolic.”
“Yes.”
“Should we remove the chair?”
“No.”
“Why?”
May you like
Anna looked toward the city.
“Someone may need it.”
