Chapter 5 His Name, Her Voice
SERAFINA
Just before lunch on Thursday I'm standing at the kitchen counter, slicing tomatoes for the first course, when Beatrice appears in the doorway with her coat over her arm.
"We're leaving now." She crosses to inspect my work with the practiced eye of someone who taught me half of what I know about this kitchen. "Corrado wants to reach the restaurant before the lunch crowd, which means I have approximately four minutes before he starts pacing."
"Go." I gesture toward the door with my knife. "I have everything under control here."
"I can see that." She picks up one of the tomato slices and examines it against the light. "These are beautiful. Where did you find them this time of year?"
"The market woman with the greenhouse." I take the slice back and add it to my arrangement. "She's been saving the good ones for me since I started buying from her."
Beatrice sets down her handbag and leans against the counter, watching me work.
The chicken is prepped and waiting in the refrigerator, seasoned with lemon and the herbs I picked from the kitchen garden this morning. The almond cake came out of the oven an hour ago and is cooling on the rack by the window. The bread I baked this morning is still soft enough to serve tonight.
"Rafael left a note this morning." I glance at the folded paper beside my menu. "Something about a problem with an order. He said he'd handle it and be back well before seven."
"There's always a problem with something." Beatrice stops inspecting the food and gives me her full attention. "At least he confirmed the time."
"He did." I set the basil aside, keeping it for later. "And Saturday he spent the whole day helping me move my equipment. He stayed instead of answering a message about work."
"I remember." She moves the cake away from the edge of the counter before turning back to me. "Corrado said he seemed different when you came back. More present."
More present. That's one way to describe it. Another way would be that for one afternoon, I had the man I married instead of the distracted stranger who's been living in his place. I want that afternoon to be the start of something. Is it foolish to want another?
"What time will you be back?" I wipe my hands on the cloth beside the chopping board.
"Late enough that you'll have the house to yourselves for dinner." Beatrice picks up her handbag again. "We're meeting friends after lunch. I thought you might appreciate the privacy."
"I do." I cross to her and accept the hug she offers. "Thank you."
"Save me some cake." She pulls back to admire the golden top of it. "Corrado will ask whether you used my recipe."
I reach for a clean cake tin, glad she is treating this as an ordinary celebration. "I'll keep some aside before Rafael gets to it."
After she leaves, the house settles into quiet around me.
I cover the tomatoes and put them in the refrigerator, leaving the basil, dressing, and crisp topping until just before serving.
The chicken goes into the oven at five-thirty, timed to be ready at seven.
I set the table yesterday, the white linen and good plates, Rafael's flowers moved to the sideboard so we can see each other across the expanse of it.
At six I go upstairs to dress.
The deep blue dress is waiting where I laid it out this morning, the neckline that makes me feel like myself. I take my time with my hair, pinning it up the way I wore it at our wedding, then changing my mind and letting it fall loose around my shoulders.
Rafael always said he preferred it down. I want him to see me tonight and remember why he chose me.
My perfume is the last thing I put on. The blend I finally got right, neroli and bergamot with the cedar base warm underneath.
I made it for myself, to prove I could still create something beautiful even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
But I want him to smell it. I want him to notice.
The dining room looks perfect when I come back downstairs.
Candles ready to light. The wine from our wedding year waits unopened on the sideboard.
I carried it up from the cellar earlier, leaving Marisol's gift on the shelf in its place.
The place opposite mine is angled toward me, close enough that we can talk without raising our voices.
Once the chicken is ready, I finish the tomatoes with basil, dressing, and crisp breadcrumbs. I carry the first course to the table, the colors bright against the white linen.
The clock in the hallway shows ten minutes to seven.
Why am I nervous? He said he'd be here. He left a note confirming it. Saturday proved he's capable of choosing me when it matters.
I light the candles and take my seat.
The chair across from me stays empty.
***
Seven o'clock comes and goes.
The candles burn beside the untouched bread. I shift my chair back to get up, then stay where I am, listening for the front door.
The first course is on the table, the tomatoes glistening under their coating of oil.
I haven't touched them. It seems wrong to start without him, to eat our anniversary dinner like it's just another meal.
But the first course is ready and the chicken is cooked, and I'm starting to feel foolish sitting here in my good dress waiting for someone who clearly has somewhere else to be.
At seven-thirty I send him a message. Just one. I promised myself I wouldn't chase him, wouldn't fill his phone with increasingly desperate texts the way I might have done months ago. But one message isn't chasing. One message is just information.
Dinner is ready. Are you coming home?
I set the phone face-down on the table and wait.
I cut a piece of bread and eat it, then take the chicken out of the oven.
There is no point ruining it. When I come back to the dining room, the phone is exactly where I left it.
Outside, the light has faded completely, the windows showing nothing but darkness and the faint reflection of myself sitting alone.
He's not coming. The knowledge settles over me like a weight, pressing down on the hope I've been carrying all day.
He's not coming, and I'm sitting here in this dress I chose for him, wearing the perfume I wanted to show him, waiting for a man who promised me seven o'clock and didn't even bother to send a message saying he'd be late.
It is nearly nine when the front door opens, just as I'm about to blow out the candles.
I'm on my feet before I can think about it, my heart lurching with a hope I'm furious at myself for feeling. He came. He's late, he's very late, but he came.
Beatrice appears in the doorway.
"Oh, Serafina." She takes in the scene with a single glance, the table set for two, the untouched food, the candles burning down to nothing. Her face shifts through something complicated before settling into a quiet fury that makes me grateful I am not her son. "He's still at the office, isn't he."
It's not a question. I sink back into my chair and nod.
"Corrado told me there was some problem with an order." Beatrice crosses to the table and sits down in Rafael's empty chair, filling the space he should be occupying. "I assumed he'd be home by now. I came to bring you these."
She sets a small wrapped package on the table between us. I stare at it without reaching for it.
"From both of us." She turns the little parcel so the ribbon faces me. "We wanted you to have something to open tonight."
"Thank you." I touch the ribbon but can't bring myself to untie it. "That's very kind."
"It's not kind." Beatrice reaches across the table and takes my hand. "It's what family does. And you are family, Serafina, whatever my son seems to have forgotten."
I should say something gracious. I should thank her again, ask about her evening, make conversation like a proper daughter-in-law. Instead I just sit there, holding her hand and staring at the tomatoes I made for a husband who couldn't be bothered to show up.
"I thought things were changing." I look down at our joined hands, embarrassed by how badly I want her to agree. "I thought he wanted tonight as much as I did."
"He wanted to be there on Saturday." Beatrice keeps hold of my hand. "And he should want to be here now. You shouldn't have to keep asking him."
"He promised." I pull my hand back and press both palms flat against the linen. "He looked me in the eyes and promised he'd be here at seven."
"I know." Beatrice's expression hardens. "And I'm going to have a very long conversation with him about what promises mean."
"Don't remind him for me." I pull my hands into my lap before I start twisting the linen. "He knew what tonight was. I don't want him coming home because his mother told him to."
"I wasn't planning to fetch him." She gestures at his untouched place setting. "He should be sitting here. He should have been sitting here two hours ago. The fact that he's not tells me everything I need to know about his priorities."
I don't want to have this conversation. I don't want to sit here with my mother-in-law dissecting my husband's failures while the candles burn down and the food goes cold. But I don't want to be alone either, and Beatrice is the only person here.
"Would you like me to stay?" Beatrice settles back in her chair, her eyes moving from the wrapped gift to my face. "Or would you rather be alone? I can leave you to your thoughts if that's what you need."
"Stay." The word comes out before I can second-guess it. "Please. I don't want to sit here by myself staring at an empty chair."
"Then I'll stay." She pushes the small package across the table toward me. "You should open this. Corrado and I chose it together. Well, I chose it and he agreed very enthusiastically when I showed him the receipt."
I manage a small laugh, which feels strange given the tightness in my chest. The package is wrapped in pale gold paper, tied with a ribbon that matches the blue of my dress. I pull the ribbon loose and fold back the paper, revealing a velvet box.