Chapter 18
Rome, Italy
Two days after Rachelle and Riccardo’s engagement party, Rachelle was still on edge.
Walking to Diana’s restaurant for one of her two weekly shifts, she paused at a little coffee shop to take a breather, to think about Tio and Valeria and how clear it seemed that they were setting her up for failure.
But if that were so, why had they gone to the effort of throwing the party in the first place?
Why had they bought Rachelle that tremendous wedding gown?
Were they doing it for Riccardo, because they thought Riccardo loved Rachelle so much?
Was that amount of money just pennies to them?
What she’d overheard Tio saying in the kitchen continued to ring in her ears.
“He’s making a big mistake.” But since then, she hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to tell Riccardo, nor ask him what he thought was going on with her old restaurant.
The day after the engagement party, he’d wanted to spend a cozy day mostly in bed, kissing and cuddling.
She’d allowed herself to drop into her love for him, as it felt comfortable not to consider all the ways her life was falling apart.
But now that she’d left the apartment, she felt as though she were drowning.
When she reached Diana’s restaurant, she made eye contact with her old friend and boss and nearly burst into tears.
Diana was washing her hands. She threw her towel aside, then came over to Rachelle and scooped her into a hug.
“Oh, honey,” she said. The hug felt remarkable, if only because Rachelle hadn’t thought Diana would ever forgive her for the wedding dress debacle and how Rachelle had failed her.
Now that so many Romans had left the city for the seaside, the restaurant wasn’t slated to be busy that night.
It meant that Diana could take Rachelle to the bar, order them two glasses of wine, and ask her what was going on.
Rachelle couldn’t bring herself to explain everything.
She was sure that she sounded half-crazy.
“You’re having doubts about Riccardo?” Diana asked, an edge of hope to her voice.
“No!” Rachelle lied, although she guessed that Diana could see all the way through her.
Diana sipped her wine and studied her.
“But I am sorry, Diana,” Rachelle went on, feeling flustered. “I’m so sorry that I failed you, that I abandoned you when you really needed me. It wasn’t right.”
Diana was quiet for a moment longer. “I imagine Riccardo’s mother doesn’t make anything easy for you.”
“No.” Rachelle didn’t add that Riccardo’s great-uncle had swept in and made everything even worse.
Diana got up and went behind the bar, where she pulled an envelope out from behind the bottles of wine. She set it down between them. “This came for you the other day,” Diana said.
Rachelle stared down at the envelope, which was addressed to her, to Rachelle, via Diana March’s restaurant. Rachelle would have recognized that handwriting anywhere. She took a staggered breath.
It was from her sister. It was from Darcy.
“Do you mind if I read this really quickly?” Rachelle asked.
Darcy glanced back at the kitchen, where the line cooks were prepping, laughing, and gossiping. Only two people were in the restaurant, although it was nearly dinnertime.
“Read it, but stick around a bit longer,” Diana said. “Maybe we can experiment with new recipes. Like old times.” She winked, then went back to the kitchen to help.
Rachelle opened the envelope gingerly, as though it could explode if she wasn’t careful.
Two pieces of paper slid out, which she spread out beneath her hands on the bar top.
She couldn’t believe Darcy had sat down to write her a letter, as though it were an entirely different century, as though email didn’t exist. She read it.
Dear Rachelle,
My therapist suggested that I send you a letter, so that I could write it slowly and really think about what I wanted to say.
You know as well as I that I’m not always the best with words.
There’s a reason that I worked as an esthetician for so many years: I liked how easy it was, how it didn’t push my brain very hard.
Now that I’ve become what Steven calls “a professional,” I guess I know how to use my brain a bit better than before.
But I don’t always know how to push my brain to describe what’s going on in my heart.
We haven’t talked in a while. That’s putting it lightly.
What I really want to say is: we haven’t connected in many, many years.
It’s been so long that I barely remember what it was like to ask your opinion on something first, or laugh with you about something stupid, or send you a photograph of something the minute it happened.
I know our trip to Capri was sort of a disaster; I know you thought that I overreacted, and I know that I resented you for that.
But in the old days, when and if we fought, we always found a way back to each other. Why couldn’t we do that this time?
We’ve received some pretty difficult news lately.
After a few weeks of nervousness on our part, Remy was diagnosed as legally deaf.
As we grapple with what to do next, I’m trying to deal with my emotions about it and other things in my life.
I guess my hope is that I won’t infect Remy with any of my messy life as she prepares to take her next steps into this world.
We’re still considering implants, although right now, the best course of action seems to be: wait, be patient, listen to the doctors.
I don’t know how to slow down and listen to the doctors, not when it comes to my baby. I don’t know how not to storm outside and scream at the sky.
I also don’t know how to bring you back into my life.
I hate that we’ve let so much time pass. I hate that when Remy sees a photograph of you, she has no idea who you are. I hate that I’m going to live out the rest of my days without you here.
Like I said, my therapist suggested that I reach out to you.
That’s right: I have a therapist, meant to walk me through this next messy era of my life.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise how quickly you came up during our first session, Rachelle.
I miss you. I guess, now that I see you’re getting married and preparing for this next big phase of your life, I always will miss you.
Love, Darcy
Rachelle couldn’t stop crying. After she read the letter a second time, she went to the bathroom and sobbed until she had nothing left.
When she emerged, she was grateful to find that a few other diners had entered the restaurant, which meant she was needed in the kitchen.
She could do what she’d come there to do: cook for strangers and forget about her problems.
“You good?” Diana asked as the grill sizzled before them.
“Never better,” Rachelle lied, because she couldn’t get into it.
But she couldn’t escape her thoughts for long.
That night, she read the letter in bed while Riccardo snored beside her.
She couldn’t sleep hardly at all. And when she woke up, and Riccardo told her that they were needed at his parents’ villa, she almost bit his head off.
But she wasn’t sure how to get out of it.
More than that, she had a sort of laissez-faire attitude about it, one that proved to her she didn’t care what happened to her, nor her relationship with Riccardo.
Receiving Darcy’s letter had changed her. It had reminded her that people in the world continued to love her, despite everything that had happened.
The same driver came to pick Rachelle and Riccardo up at six-fifteen. In the back seat, Riccardo swiped on his phone and touched Rachelle’s thigh with his other hand. Rachelle had her ankles crossed, her eyes to the sidewalk outside.
“Why did your Tio come back to Italy again?” She asked suddenly.
Riccardo hardly lifted his head. “He missed us, I think? He missed Italy. And he kept getting divorced, I guess. So my mom asked him to come back and mend things again.”
“And they’re close, I guess?” Rachelle asked. “Your mother and your great-uncle?”
Riccardo put his phone down and smiled at her. “You’re so curious!”
“They’re going to be my family soon,” Rachelle said. “I’m just trying to figure out who they are.”
Riccardo kissed her cheek and told her it was sweet of her to care so much.
But when they reached his parents’ villa, Rachelle had worked herself up again.
Entering, they were given glasses of Portuguese wine and told to head out to the veranda, where more snacks awaited them.
Gia and Teresa were sunning themselves, while Valeria flipped through a newspaper and Tony read a book about ancient Greece. Tio wasn’t there, at least not yet.
“Where’s Tio?” Rachelle asked, trying to keep her voice light.
Valeria smiled. “He should be coming down soon.”
Distracted in the silence, Rachelle got up and went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water.
It wasn’t customary for anyone at the villa to do anything themselves.
You were supposed to ask the staff. But here she was, “working” to get her own glass of water.
She guessed she’d get in trouble, but she didn’t care.
When she turned around, she nearly dropped her glass. Tio was standing in the doorway, en route to the veranda. He wore a soft smile, and he held a book in his right hand. She guessed he was planning to join the others for their reading afternoon.
“Oh! I didn’t know you were there,” Rachelle said. She hated how kind she sounded, especially after what she’d heard Tio saying at the party.
In English, Tio said, “I snuck up on you. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Rachelle was surprised at how open he was, how friendly. She set her glass of water down and crossed her arms. Was he really so good at lying? Were they all?
Tio hadn’t dared continue. It was as though he knew she wanted to ask him something.
“I saw you the other day,” Rachelle said. “You were coming out of my restaurant.”
Tio looked confused. “I’m sorry. Which restaurant is yours?”
“The one that burned!” she cried. “The one with the charred-out kitchen!”
Tio’s face echoed recognition, but she didn’t think he still fully understood. “I did buy a property like that,” he said thoughtfully. “Just the other day.”
Rachelle remained quiet.
“You’re saying that was your restaurant?” Tio asked, shaking his head. “I don’t understand. Why did it burn up?”
Rachelle was fuming. But confusion swirled in her head, as well. “Why that place?” She demanded. “Why did you buy that particular restaurant?”
Tio’s eyebrows skyrocketed. It was clear he didn’t want to tell her.
It was then that Rachelle spotted the book he had in his hand.
The writer’s name—Estelle Coleman—-shot through her so violently that she thought she might fall.
She couldn’t stop herself from pulling it out of his hands.
“What are you doing to me?” She demanded, shaking the book.
It was the Italian translation of her most recent release, a book Rachelle had never held in her hands. She began to cry, having it here.
Tio looked at a loss.
Hearing the commotion, Valeria and Riccardo came inside to find Rachelle, crying with Tio’s book in her hands, and Tio, his arms hanging, gaping at her.
“I don’t know why you’re all messing with me,” Rachelle said, the book still waving. “I’m a person, you know? I might not have your money or your Italian lineage or whatever. But I’m a person!”
“Honey, what are you talking about?” Valeria demanded.
Slowly, Tio’s face echoed his disbelief. Rachelle knew she looked insane. But she couldn’t stop.
“It’s my grandmother’s book,” she said to Tio, waving it. “She wrote it. She’s the most brilliant woman in the world, and I don’t even know her anymore. She’s out of my life.”
Riccardo and Valeria exchanged panicked glances. But Tio reached forward, took his book back, then opened it to the cover page. There, in her grandmother’s handwriting, it was written “To my star in the sky, Albert. Yours, Estelle.”