6. Mira
MIRA
T his was absurd.
Never in my whole life had I imagined anything like this—facing my reflection in a mirror above a sink in a public restroom, touching up my lip gloss, forcing myself through every breath I took.
My wedding day. What a fucking joke.
Papa and Clay would be waiting for me outside the registrar’s office down the hall from the restroom I had ducked into as a last-second refuge. I was doing what I needed to for my future and to protect what Papa had built.
To protect him too. I had spent so much of my life taking care of not only his business but of him as well.
It was second nature now. Nobody had to tell me his health wasn’t what it used to be—even today, a day he had been looking forward to for the past week, he seemed tired.
Wiped out. Did he know something I didn’t?
Was that why he was determined to marry me off?
Or was I seeing what I wanted to because it meant making an excuse for him?
I’d been doing it just about all my life.
He didn’t mean to miss my school play, my assembly, or the awards ceremony, where I received no fewer than five certificates for my academic achievements that year.
Hell, half of the reason I got started in the family business in the first place was to spend a little time with him.
It just so happened I fell in love with the work, the people—all of it.
Now, it was that love pushing me to square my shoulders, to brush a piece of lint off the lapel of my cream, vintage Chanel suit, and march out of the ladies’ room like I was going into battle. It was only a signature on a piece of paper. It didn’t mean anything.
It wasn’t so easy to remind myself of that once I caught sight of Papa’s expectant smile when he saw me approaching. “ Cara Mia ,” he murmured, extending his hands to clasp mine. “You look so beautiful.”
“Thank you, Papa.” It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
We were supposed to be clasping hands and sharing a touching moment in the front vestibule of the church or the hallway outside the ballroom where my wedding would take place.
Instead, we were in City Hall, passed in both directions by employees and lost visitors.
Somewhere down the hall, a clerk had left a coffee pot on the hot plate for too long, and the acrid odor of burnt coffee hung in the air.
What a memorable day this was shaping up to be.
“Oh, cara mia …” He sighed. “I know you are unhappy today. You have always been the finest daughter a man could ask for. You have done everything you possibly could to keep your papa happy and to look after me. Let me look after you now.”
“Papa, is that what you think you need to do?” I squeezed his hands tighter, forgetting my bitterness for a second. “You don’t know by now that I can take care of myself?”
“I know you think you can, and it could be true,” he added, like he was throwing me a bone. “But your papa knows best. I have seen much more of life than you have in three-quarters of a century. Twenty-eight? You’re a baby. You’ll understand one day.”
“Do you know you’ve been saying that to me ever since I was a little girl?”
“And I’ve always been right.” He winked, his eyes twinkling. He then inclined his head toward the frosted glass door beyond where we were standing. “Your groom is waiting for us inside.”
My groom. I had to remember I was doing this for the right reason—to make Papa happy, to make his last years peaceful, to protect my people. They were counting on me, and I wasn’t going to take some stranger’s word for it when he swore he would keep their jobs in place.
I was doing it for myself too. Was I supposed to step aside and let this groom of mine take over what I had fought like hell to grow?
Would he ever feel the same affection flowing through him when he walked through the doors of one of our properties?
He hadn’t grown up in some of them, hadn’t grown up alongside the children of our longtime employees. They weren’t his family.
Whatever it takes.
I reminded myself of that as Papa led me through the door, our arms linked in some weird parody of him walking me down the aisle.
A tall, broad backed man standing at the registrant’s desk turned at the sound of our entrance.
Dammit, there were his dimples when he smiled.
Those dimples were going to be the death of me, along with a body no suit could hide.
At least he wouldn’t be bad to look at on the occasions we would cross paths at home or work.
“Let’s do this,” I announced.
The sooner we got it over with, the sooner I could move on with my life.
* * *
Matteo: I want to see you tonight.
Matteo’s text made my heart sink. I left my phone in my lap, face down, then went back to my salad.
He wasn’t taking this whole marriage thing well, no matter how I tried to tell him it didn’t matter.
It was only a formality. Clay and I had an understanding, awkward as it was.
We were doing this to keep Papa happy, to get Clay his properties, and for me to keep my job.
We sat at a round table in the corner of the restaurant, away from the busiest part of the dining room, where the men could talk, and I could fade into the background. They may as well have gotten a table for two and let me sit by myself.
“I’ve been thinking about the hotel in Sonoma,” Clay told Papa. He had barely touched his food, too busy feasting on business. “I understand the last time it was updated was more than a decade ago.”
“That was something I had in the pipeline,” Papa explained. “But the cabins up in Lake Tahoe took precedence. That was my second purchase after the resort in Santa Barbara.”
“While there are very few negative comments about the facilities online, those that exist revolve around outdated furnishing…” Clay droned on, and Papa soaked up every word while I found myself wondering how my fork would look sticking out of his eye socket.
What right did he have to talk that way?
It had been all of an hour since we signed the marriage license, meaning it had been half an hour since the men had finished signing the transfer papers in a small antechamber off the registrar’s office.
Clay had officially owned our properties for half an hour, and he was already staking his claim. He may as well have whipped it out and pissed all over the place to make sure everybody knew what was his.
Obviously, he had spent hours obsessing over this.
I could imagine him in the house my things had already been moved into, plotting, scheming, rubbing his hands together like a supervillain in some cheesy spy movie.
Imagining himself sitting at the top of the empire, a king on his throne, having everything he wanted and not having to give up a single thing in exchange.
The phone buzzed in my lap. Another text from Matteo.
Matteo: Will you be at your new place tonight? I want to be there for you. You deserve to keep your life as normal as possible too.
It wasn’t that he didn’t make a point. And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him.
On the contrary, I craved his caring and kindness now more than ever.
He was somebody who actually wanted to be with me, not because he had signed a ton of paperwork which happened to include a marriage license.
Somebody who actually thought about me. I was thinking like a whiny, petulant teenager, but then I had never been through anything like this.
Was it a good idea for him to show his face? Would that only complicate things?
I didn't want to keep him waiting, so I sent him a quick message.
Me: Let me get back to you. I’m fine. Don’t worry.
Papa turned to me. “Do you think you’ll be comfortable in your new house?” he asked.
“I can’t imagine not being comfortable there.
” So what if I’d spent the past six years in a beautiful apartment?
Granted, I didn’t get to spend a ton of time there, usually traveling from one location to the other, pulling long hours at the office, and even staying at rival properties to get an idea of how we could improve. But it was mine, dammit.
“And when?—”
“Good, Cara Mia, ” my father interrupted, shifting his attention to Clay before I could finish.
“If there’s one thing I like, it’s comfort.” Clay cut a bite of his salmon but paused, lifting the fork to his lips.
“Yes. Absolutely. That’s?—”
“Speaking of comfort,” Clay interjected. “Did I tell you about the glowing feedback we got once we switched mattress brands? It turned out the memory foam wasn’t doing people with bad backs any favors.”
Well, damn. Was I invisible? Did I even exist? Not once had Clay looked toward me like he wanted to include me in the conversation. I might as well have been a briefcase he brought along with him to a lunch meeting.
Fuck this. My damn pride was worth more. I texted Matteo, hands shaking, teeth grinding until I heard the sound mixed with the rush of blood in my ears.
Me: I’m unpacking later. Come over tonight. 9 o’clock.
I sent him the address, then set the phone aside again. If nobody gave a shit about me, nobody would give a shit about me getting something I needed tonight.
After kissing Papa goodbye and promising to have him over for dinner soon, there was a quiet ride to the house with my husband and I sitting on opposite ends of the back seat with our noses in our phones.
My husband. His wife. The slim platinum band on my ring finger told the whole story.
I would have to buy myself an engagement ring.
Dammit, I deserved something sparkly. I should have asked for that.
I should’ve asked for a lot of things that didn’t occur to me until now.