Happily Letter After by Vi Keeland
CHAPTER 6
SADIE
I typed.
Sebastian Maxwell restaurant.
The keys clicked as I immediately deleted the words.
No, I can’t go there.
After a few seconds of staring at Google, I typed again.
Sebastian Maxwell restaurant New York.
This time, instead of deleting it, I hit “Enter.”
The About Us section of a website popped right up in the search results.
Bianco’s Ristorante.
I read it.
Bianco’s Ristorante was founded in 2012 by Sebastian Maxwell, a New York City entrepreneur and his wife, Amanda, a master chef. The Maxwells were heavily inspired by Sebastian’s paternal grandmother, Rosa Bianco, who emigrated from Northern Italy in 1960. Over the years, Sebastian saved all his nonna’s recipes and today, together with head chef Renzo Vittadini, has crafted one of the most decadent menus in all of the tristate area, boasting old-world recipes infused with a modern flair. Bianco’s top-notch cuisine coupled with its dimly lit, rustic ambience makes your night out more than just a meal—it’s a culinary experience.
From intimate dinners to private events, contact us to make a reservation.
I clicked over to the menu tab.
Each entrée was named after a person. Renzo’s Ricotta Pie, Nonna Rosa’s Chicken Parmesan, Birdie’s Pasta Bolognese, Mandy’s Manicotti.
Mandy.
Amanda.
Sebastian’s Saltimbocca.
They had an extensive wine list.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I jumped at the sound of Devin’s voice from behind. “You scared me.”
“Why did you tab over to another screen just now?”
“No reason. You know . . . I’m not really supposed to be goofing off.”
She smirked. “What’s Bianco’s?”
Great.She’d caught the name at the top of the tab.
I let out a long breath but tried my best to still sound nonchalant. “It’s Birdie’s dad’s restaurant.”
“Nice!” She laughed, all too pleased with my apparent weakness. “You know I’m down with the stalking—especially the stalking of that amazing-looking specimen.”
“I know you fully support it. But I feel stupid doing it.”
“But a part of you can’t help it, right?”
I shrugged. “He’s intriguing.”
Her eyes filled with excitement, like a giddy kid who’d just found out the carnival was coming to town. “So when are we going? I’m suddenly craving a nice big bowl of al dente pasta.”
“Oh, no. That’s where I draw the line. Online stalking is one thing. That’s a leisurely pastime. Innocent, even. But showing up in person? No.” I shook my head. “No, no, no.”
“It’s a public restaurant. How is that stalking?”
Rustling some of the papers on my desk, I said, “Devin . . . drop it.”
“Would you care if I checked it out, then? Armando and I have been looking for a new place to try.”
“Are you going to tell your fiancé that the real reason you’re taking him there is to check out the hot owner?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “He doesn’t have to know that. He loves food. He’ll be thrilled.” Devin leaned over to my computer. “Can you make a reservation online?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t check because I had no intention of going.”
“Let me see,” she said, grabbing my mouse and maximizing the screen before perusing the site. “Ah.” She grinned.
“What are you doing, Devin?”
She proceeded to type in all her information. “The only opening was 5:00 pm on Saturday. Looks like everything beyond that is taken. Good thing I love early-bird specials like an old person anyway.”
Shaking my head, I said, “You’re nuts.”
She winked. “I’ll let you know if I spot him.”
Two weeks passed, summer was coming to an end soon, and no more letters from Birdie had arrived. Devin and Armando ended up having that amazing and very expensive dinner at Bianco’s—with no sign of Sebastian Maxwell whatsoever. That’s what she gets for trying to stalk him.
Because it had been a while, I’d been pretty convinced that I wouldn’t hear from Birdie again.
Then one afternoon, much to my surprise, in the middle of my usual stack of mail was a letter from my little friend.
My pulse raced as I ran to my desk, dumped the rest of the mail down, and ripped open the envelope.
Dear Santa,
Did Mommy tell you she came to visit me at Central Park? I know you gave her my message because there was a black horse like I told you about on the carousel. She sent a butterfly to lead me to it. I don’t know if she sent a butterfly or if the butterfly was really her? Anyway, it was so amazing. I miss her so much.
But can you ask her why she isn’t trying to come see me anymore? I keep looking for her, and she hasn’t given me any more signs. Now that you reached her and she found a way back, I thought she would want to spend more time with me.
I’m worried she might be mad at me now that she can see me. Maybe she knows what I did to Suzie’s hair or that I sometimes steal cookies in the middle of the night.
Can you just tell her to send me one more sign so I know she’s not mad? Even if she can’t stay?
I’m sorry to bother you again, Santa. This will be the last time. I promise.
Birdie
As I folded the letter while tears streamed down my cheeks, I realized that maybe Birdie wasn’t the only person who needed help anymore.
It had been a long time since I’d visited my shrink, Dr. Eloisa Emery. Her office overlooked Times Square, which I always found ironic, since the view from her window was just about the most chaotic thing I could imagine. Definitely not a relaxing atmosphere for a therapy appointment. During my sessions, I’d stare out at the massive, ever-changing digital billboard as I attempted to gather my thoughts.
I’d been suspecting I needed my head checked for some time, and today I was taking that literally, sharing the story of Birdie and hoping that Dr. Emery could help me move past everything.
I’d just finished telling her about our letters and ended on the most recent one I’d received.
“The tone of this one seemed more panicked,” I said. “She was truly worried that she’d done something to keep her mother’s spirit away. There was no usual P.S. at the end, either, so the overall tone was a bit short. It made me realize that I had really made things worse in setting her up to find that horse, even if it was the butterfly that ultimately led her there.”
She pulled off her glasses and set them on her leg. “So you’re feeling lots of guilt.”
“Yes, of course. Now there’s an expectation for more from her mother when there isn’t anything more. I started a mess. Her mother’s dead, and any implication that Birdie could still communicate with her is misleading.”
Dr. Emery put her glasses back on and scribbled a few things down in her notebook before looking up at me again. “Sadie, I think it’s going to be important for you to learn to accept the fact that you can’t change anything you’ve done thus far. You know now that playing with fate the way you have, as charming as it was, is really not the wisest idea. So I do think you need to really rip the Band-Aid off here.”
My hands felt sweaty as I rubbed them along my legs. “What do you mean by that exactly?”
“You seem incapable of not engaging whenever she contacts you. I think on some level, you’re so invested because she reminds you of yourself, so it’s almost like you’ve been given this opportunity to do for someone else what wasn’t done for you. And that was hard to resist. You’re also connecting with your inner child a bit. But now you know that engaging is harmful. And the more you engage, the harder it’s going to be to stop. So perhaps, if she contacts you again, you should not open the letter at all.”
Shaking my head repeatedly while staring out the window, I said, “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have to at least know she’s okay . . . even if I don’t engage.”
“She doesn’t know you exist. She doesn’t know you have developed feelings for her. Therefore, your feelings, no matter how strong, do not impact her. If you’re not communicating back with her and if you’ve vowed to no longer interfere by pretending to be Santa Claus, then you mustn’t involve yourself in any way in her life. That includes reading her letters.” She tilted her head. “Can you do that? Can you cut all ties for your own good and, ultimately, the good of this little girl?”
I gazed out at the billboard and watched it change approximately three times before I finally said, “I’ll try.”
