Chapter 48

The day Loretta was born, a rare summer rain came down over San Francisco. Water drummed against the estate's windowpanes, gathering into thin rivulets along the stone paths of the garden, and the whole courtyard sat under a gray haze of mist. I lay in the birthing room in the east wing of the estate, specially converted for this, with Rosalind and an obstetrician brought in from Milan standing at the bedside. Through the door came the sound of Lorenzo pacing back and forth in the hallway, dull and rapid.