Chapter 4
FRANKIE
What a pathetically small life I have.
Later that day, I supervise the movers bringing my boxes into the guesthouse.
Honestly, there’s hardly anything for them to carry in.
I have them stack all the boxes in the living room for me to sort through on my own.
Pretty much everything I’d hurriedly packed up after I finished with my shift in the tasting room was purchased with Dante’s money.
Clothes, shoes, accessories, makeup, and miscellaneous toiletries.
My fluffy bathrobes. And…that’s pretty much it.
None of it is all that meaningful; none of it can comfort me in my solitude.
I never imagined the sum of my life could fit into a handful of cardboard containers, but here we are.
I only needed a single box to hold the things I came into the marriage with. I have the movers place it in the bedroom. It makes me feel better to have my things separate from everything else that has the Bellanti stink all over it.
Once the movers are gone, I’m left alone to sort through my possessions.
It doesn’t even take an hour to put it all away, but I’m exhausted by the time I finish.
The unfamiliarity and emptiness of the guesthouse is draining.
It takes mental energy to immerse yourself in a new space, to get to know it and let yourself become a part of it.
And I don’t even know how long this place will be my residence, which drains me even more.
What sense is there in expending energy trying to acclimate to a new place that will probably be temporary?
I had just started to truly get my bearings inside the Bellanti house, and look where that got me.
I slowly walk through the guesthouse with my arms tightly crossed.
Admittedly, the house is lovely with its arched doorways, stone walls, and terra-cotta slab floors.
It reminds me of the buildings in Tuscany, infused with old world charm yet outfitted with modern trappings.
I wander through the lofty living space, the two bedrooms—one a master with an en suite, the separate guest bath, a commercial-style kitchen.
The house is decorated in cool neutrals and natural finishes; what it lacks in personality it makes up for in understated luxury.
I feel like I’m walking through a Restoration Hardware catalogue or an Architectural Digest spread.
Too bad there’s nobody here to admire it with me.
Sinking onto the couch, all I can think about is the hollow pit in my chest. I feel so lost. And then I realize that it’s late, and that I haven’t eaten since this morning, when Greg took pity on me and threw together a quick breakfast scavenged from the tasting room’s fridge full of ingredients for tapas and cheese boards.
He’d asked me what was wrong, but I’d declined to explain.
After all, Dante wanted our marriage to appear intact.
All I could do was lie to Greg about having a migraine coming on and do my best to smile through the rest of my shift.
My stomach growls as I head back into the kitchen. I figure there should be at least a few dry goods in the cabinets, maybe some pasta or rice I can cook up—but surprisingly, I find the kitchen fully stocked.
The cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer are all full.
Everything is fresh. Huh. Then, I see a handwritten note in the middle of the marble counter.
It’s tucked under a loaf of fresh baked rustic bread that’s wrapped in parchment paper and tied with string.
I don’t even need to look at the note to know exactly who it’s from: Alain, the Bellantis’ personal chef.
I can feel the warmth of his good intentions as I read the note, a small smile playing at my lips even amid so much emotional wreckage.
The older Frenchman was always kind and enthusiastic, eager to cook for me and make me feel welcome.
The note says he’ll be keeping the kitchen well stocked, and he added his cell phone number so I can call with any special requests.
He’s also happy to make me meals, as long as I don’t tell Dante.
My eyes sting at Alain’s kindness. I know he’s worked at the main house for a long time. He’s worked too hard, I imagine, and has loyalties to the Bellantis that should cancel out any kindness he feels toward me. Yet he’d stuck his neck out for me.
Still, I can’t allow him to stumble into the center of Dante’s crosshairs. As much as I appreciate the offer, there’s no way I can take Alain up on it without risking Dante’s wrath. The grocery delivery itself is more than enough to be grateful for. I’ll make do.
I take advantage of the fresh bread and make myself a slice of buttered toast, which is about all I think I can stomach right now.
As I eat slowly at the counter, looking around the wood and stone of the kitchen, I’m reminded forcefully of Tuscany.
It’s not just the style of the guesthouse, though. It’s the loneliness and isolation.
Of course I’d loved my time there, the learning and experience of it all.
And when school was in session, it had been delightful.
But although I’d been lucky enough to be able to stay in a room at a family friend’s house while I was in Italy, I never had much money to travel or even go out much, so I’d kept to myself most of the time.
When my sisters visited, I played the exuberant tour guide, of course—but once they left I was back to my usual frugal, solitary state.
Even more so after being dumped by Rico.
Yet here I am, back on my own. After being abandoned. Again.
I set down the half-eaten toast and let out a sigh. How long am I supposed to take part in this marriage facade? Forever? Is this guesthouse my permanent residence now, or is Dante going to arrange a quiet divorce for us as soon as possible? Where will I go? What will I do?
Midway through my mental panic, I hear a knock at the door. It’s just after eight p.m., and I wonder if it’s Alain coming to check on me.
Instead, when I look through the peephole, I see Charlie standing on the porch with Livvie at her side. Thank God for my sisters. Really, thank every God, like everywhere.
Flinging open the door, I fall into Charlie’s one-armed embrace.
“What are you two doing here?” I murmur, blinking back tears.
“I interpreted your ‘Dante kicked me out but I’ll be fine’ text as a veiled cry for help,” Charlie says wryly. “So here we are.”
She’s got a six-pack of fancy-looking craft beer under the other arm, yet still manages to hug me back while walking us backwards into the living room. Livvie lifts up two pizza boxes as she follows.
“Garlic knots and cosmic caramel brownies, too!” she announces.
I nearly break into tears, but I’m too wrung out at this point to expend the energy. Livvie quickly arranges the feast on the coffee table, and we all gather around it, after I run to the kitchen first to get plates and a sparkling water for Liv.
As we sit together in the (admittedly very comfortable) living room and dive into the food, Charlie cuts right to the chase.
“You know I love you,” she says, “but what the fuck, Frankie? What is Rico doing here? I’m on your side, but I can’t really blame Dante for throwing a shit fit. What’s going on?”
With a sigh, I let my head fall back against the couch cushion. “I honestly don’t know. I had no idea Rico was coming. It’s such a mess.”
Livvie looks between us while taking a huge bite of pepperoni pizza. Charlie hands me a beer, which I immediately twist the top off of. I take a long swig, savoring the citrus and hops. There’s a beat of silence, and apparently, I don’t speak fast enough for my sister’s liking.
“Well?” Charlie prods. “So? Tell me everything.”
I sigh. “Where do you want me to start?”
My older sister’s face scrunches and I can see she’s annoyed.
“Your shitty Italian ex who I only know from your Instagram feed shows up in Napa out of nowhere last night, butts in between you and your husband, and apparently causes such a stink that you end up getting banished to the guesthouse until further notice. I saw the ring on Rico’s finger, Frankie, and the whole situation seems really…
well, fucked. Are you seriously asking me where you should start, or should I just assume the worst? ”
“Can I have a beer?” Livvie asks innocently.
Charlie waves noncommittally at her. I don’t know if that means yes or no, but Livvie takes it as a yes and twists the top off a bottle. The sound gets Charlie’s attention. She whips a look at our younger sister. “Only half. I mean it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Livvie says with a smile.
I grab a slice of pizza and take a huge bite, stalling just a bit longer before I have to pull all the skeletons from my closet.
With an impatient huff, Charlie turns to her own food.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, but there’s definitely an elephant in the room.
I hurry through a few more bites and then set my slice back on the plate.
“Okay. Here’s the story.” I clear my throat and lay it out, keeping my voice as matter-of-fact as possible since I know the shit is about to hit the fan.
I confess everything, all of it, from the first time we met in the market to the lightning-fast courtship to the quickie wedding…
“He was hot. He was Italian. He was sexy as sin. He claimed his father was a descendent of Spanish royalty. His mother was a famous actress, supposedly. He spoke like six languages and he seduced me with every single one of them. Brought me flowers every day. Roses. Sunflowers. Lilies.”
Livvie tosses back a swig of beer and then smiles at me with a dreamy look on her face. “How romantic.”
Charlie grabs the beer out of Livvie’s hand and sets it on the table.
I look at my younger sister, shaking my head.
“He was full of shit. It wasn’t romantic at all.
It was impulsive, and foolish. I thought he was someone he wasn’t, because I let him sweep me off my feet without asking any hard questions.
I never really knew Rico. Not the real Rico.
And by the time I figured it all out, it was too late. I was so na?ve.”
“Honey, that’s what love does to everyone,” Charlie says gently.
“I never loved him. I was just inexperienced and infatuated. I didn’t know the difference yet.” The vehemence in my words surprises me. I wasn’t actually sure if that was true until right now. “I have never regretted anything more in my entire life.”
I wrap up my tale of woe, finishing off by describing the final moments in the hostel, when Rico kissed me goodbye and said he’d be right back with espresso and bomboloni from the corner café—and then never returned.
“So what are you gonna do now?” Livvie asks, looking a lot less enchanted now that she’s heard the end of my story.
Shaking my head, I say, “Whatever I can. Whatever my real husband tells me to.”
Charlie grabs Livvie’s beer and finishes it. “You can start by divorcing Rico, obviously…”
“Obviously,” I agree. “I should’ve done it in Italy, but…
he was gone, where would I even serve the papers?
I was far from home—even my Italian home when he actually left me.
Not a citizen, abandoned by a man who said he loved me…
I just couldn’t even fathom trying to explain it all to a lawyer, a judge… to both of you.”
Charlie slips her arm around my shoulders and holds me tight against her. “Livvie and I were in Tuscany for a whole summer. You never said anything. We would have helped.”
It’s all I can do to hold back tears.
“Your visit saved my life back then,” I tell them. “And you’re definitely doing the same thing tonight.”
Hours later, after watching a rom-com and polishing off the brownies, Livvie has fallen asleep curled up in an oversized chair and Charlie and I are cleaning up.
As I rinse dishes in the kitchen sink, I tell Charlie in a low voice, “There’s something else I need to tell you. It’s about Dad.”
“What about Dad?” she asks, her expression turned sour. “I know it can’t be good.”
I proceed to tell her what happened last night, how he’d cornered me in the dark and threatened me. Charlie seems shocked, which is surprising considering the fact that nothing about our father really shocks us anymore.
“He’s unstable, and he’s getting worse,” I conclude. “We can’t let Livvie stay there with him anymore.”
“Agreed. I’ll move her to Nob Hill with me, indefinitely. Except the horses—”
“Maybe Delores’s grandson could come and take care of them until we can find a place to move them,” I say, thinking out loud. “And we’ll have to come up with something to explain it to Livvie. I don’t want her to know what Dad did to me.”
Charlie nods. Honestly, I’m tired of lying to our baby sister. Charlie and I both know that Livvie understands more about our father than she lets on. She may be young, but she’s not stupid.
“You know, one of these days we’re going to have to tell her the whole story,” I say.
“Yeah. Let’s just let her be a kid for a little while longer, though. Life will get painful for her soon enough as it is.”
I can’t help but agree.