Chapter 07 #2
My phone vibrating on the desk pulls my attention from the report I’m reading. I answer, a little surprised, though I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
“Shouldn’t the mother of the graduate already be on her way?” My tone is light—but I can’t help the change in my voice as I add, “Ciao, cara mia.”
“Ciao, Alexander,” Cecilia’s voice comes through, smooth and gentle, seeping under my skin like it always does. “We’re leaving in about half an hour.”
She tries to sound casual, but I can hear the nervousness in her voice.
“Everything alright, Cecily?”
“Yes, yes... I just—”
She stops, and I can hear her draw in a breath on the other end of the line. “I think I’m just a little nervous, that’s all. The kids were anxious earlier too. It’s a big day for everyone.”
I let her take her time, knowing she isn’t finished yet.
“And I... well, I wanted to hear your voice before leaving.”
My hand tightens around the phone. Eyes closed, I let her words sink in, let them find the place they always seem to reach.
“You wanted to hear my voice?”
It comes out rougher than I mean it to. And I can’t even bring myself to care that it might sound too revealing.
“Yes,” she says, with a light, almost shy laugh. “Not in a weird way or anything. It’s just... I’ve told you this before. There’s something about you, I don’t know how to explain it, you make me feel like I’ve known you for years... maybe my whole life. I like talking to you. I like hearing you.”
“Anch’io, tesoro. [XXVI]Anch’io.” I breathe out before I can stop myself. Then clear my throat, forcing a lighter tone. “I mean... me too. I feel the same.”
I don’t translate the word tesoro, a word that could mean love, treasure, sweetheart. And I’m relieved when Cecilia doesn’t ask me to.
We stop talking, neither of us trying to take the words back. After a moment, I ask, “Are you ready for the graduation ceremony?”
“Almost,” she replies right away. “Hair and makeup are done, shoes too. I’m just waiting to put the dress on before we leave, don’t want to wrinkle it.”
I shift in my chair, every muscle tightening at the image that passes through my mind: her sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a silk robe, the faintest trace of perfume lingering in the room, her voice soft in my ear as we talk about nothing and everything.
“Describe your dress for me,” I ask, trying to distract myself. My tone is rougher, sounding almost like a plea.
She laughs, and begins to describe it. But truthfully, the only detail I catch is the color: a muted shade of blue-gray.
A knock sounds on her end of the line, followed by her voice calling out. “Just a second,” she says, her words muffled now.
Then another voice. Younger, feminine. Her daughter.
I smile without realizing it... until the words that follow cut through the line.
“Dad called. He said he’s already on his way and will meet us at the venue.”
My jaw tightens. It takes me a moment to realize Cecilia is calling my name. I draw in a deep breath before I answer.
“Sì,” I force out.
“I was saying I need to finish getting ready or I’ll be late,” Cecilia says quickly.
“Of course,” I reply. “I don’t want to keep you. I hope you all have an amazing day.”
“Thank you, Alexander.”
She’s about to hang up when the words slip out.
“Send me a photo when you’re ready... I’d like to see you in the dress you described.” I hesitate, forcing my voice to stay composed. “Only if you want to.”
A few seconds go by. Then, barely above a whisper: “Okay.”
We say goodbye again, and I can’t tell if her “okay” meant “Okay, I’ll send you the photo,” or “Okay, I’ll think about it.”
I get my answer ten minutes later. Just a photo, one that speaks louder than a thousand words ever could.
She’s standing in front of an armchair, probably in her living room, wearing the blue-gray dress she described. The fabric hugs her body with effortless elegance before falling just below her knees, a discreet slit tracing the start of her right leg.
The top is intricate lace, fitted high along her neck, the short sleeves framing her shoulders in a way that feels incredibly graceful.
Her hair is pulled back in an elegant updo, exposing the gentle line of her neck and her delicate features, the light makeup only drawing attention to what’s already strikingly beautiful.
For a moment, I just stare at the photo. But it isn’t the dress. It isn’t the makeup. It’s her.
She’s stunning.
Everything about her—the way she stands, the calm in her eyes, the shy curve of her mouth—has a life of its own. She has something I’ve never seen in anyone else. Something I always struggle to describe but feel deep in my bones.
Me: You’re stunning. You’re going to be the most beautiful woman there.
She replies two minutes later.
Cecilia: I guess what they say about Italians is true. You’re all impossibly charming.
I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips.
“One day, Cecilia,” I murmur, staring at her message, “one day you’ll realize this half-Italian, half-French fool hasn’t looked at anyone the same since I first saw you.”
I type a quick reply, keeping my tone casual.
Me: Just saying what I see. You’re stunning no matter what you wear. Enjoy the day.
She sends back a simple ‘thank-you’, and I place my phone face-down on the desk.
The reports on export numbers wait in front of me, lines and figures blurring together. I try—per Dio[XXVII], I try—to focus, to keep my thoughts anywhere else. But the image of her in that dress lingers.
And the only thing louder than the emptiness in my office is the thought of her sitting for hours beside that stronzo.