Chapter 9 - The Name on the Door
The sun finally broke through the clouds over Philadelphia three days before Christmas, turning the snow on the roof of the Caruso estate into a million small, diamond-bright drops of water.
Grace Miller sat in the wicker rocking chair in the guesthouse sunroom, a heavy wool blanket over her knees and a cup of peppermint tea cooling on the table beside her.
The door opened without a knock.
This time it wasn’t Marco.
Dr. Hannah Mercer walked in carrying a large manila envelope with the seal of the city health department stamped in red ink across the corner.
“You look entirely too comfortable for someone who’s supposed to be on strict horizontal bed rest,” Dr. Mercer said, pulling off her leather gloves and tossing them onto the kitchen counter.
“I’m sitting up,” Grace protested with a small smile. “That’s technically an angle.”
Dr. Mercer pulled up a chair and laid the envelope across Grace’s lap. “Open it.”
Grace’s fingers felt clumsy as she broke the red wax seal. Inside was a certificate from the city planning commission, signed by three different deputy commissioners and countersigned by the mayor’s office.
The Vasquez-Mancini Center for Maternal Health — South Philadelphia.
Grace stared at the name for ten seconds before she looked up, her eyes wide and confused. “What is this? I don't... I don't work in city administration.”
“You do now,” Dr. Mercer said, her tone softening as she reached out to pat Grace’s hand. “Vincent bought the old clinic building on 9th Street—the one the city shut down five years ago for lack of funding. He’s had a crew of thirty men working on it round-the-clock since Tuesday. It’s going to be a free clinic for women who can’t afford insurance, and your name is on the deed as primary director.”
Grace’s breath caught in her throat. “Director? I don't even have a college degree. I clean—”
“You used to clean,” Dr. Mercer corrected her gently. “Now you’re an administrator with a very aggressive benefactor who doesn't like taking no for an answer from city hall.”
Grace looked toward the main house, where the tall brick chimneys were sending up a steady, thin line of blue smoke against the bright winter sky.
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“He shouldn't have done that,” Grace whispered. “It’s too much.”
“Tell him yourself,” Dr. Mercer said, standing up and grabbing her gloves. “He’s waiting by the river gate with Marco and a very confused contractor who thinks he’s building a nursery out of bulletproof glass.”
