Chapter 5 What the Empty Chair Knew
YSABEL
I wake alone on our anniversary, but that was always the plan.
Leon has been overseas for three days now, the launch events running their course while I stayed behind with my unsettled stomach and my careful plans.
He left with Nadia and Vera two mornings after my trip to town, and I stood in the doorway and watched the car disappear down the drive and told myself it would be fine, that the days would pass quickly, that he would keep his promise.
The morning flight home, landing early afternoon, home well before dinner.
That's what we arranged. That's what he swore.
The nausea hits before I can sit up properly, that familiar rolling wave that has become the unwelcome companion of my mornings.
I breathe through it, waiting for it to crest and subside, and when it finally eases I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for the crackers I've learned to keep on the nightstand.
Two years married today. Two years since the ceremony that defied Vera's wishes and scandalized her carefully curated world.
My parents were there, proud and worried in equal measure, my mother's eyes bright with tears she kept blinking away.
I remember the way Leon looked at me that day, like I was the only real thing in a room full of shadows, and I hold onto that image while I chew dry crackers and wait for my body to decide whether it will cooperate.
The morning light is soft through the curtains. I let myself stay in bed for a few more minutes, counting the hours until Leon's flight lands. He promised. The return booking is for this morning, and he'll be home before evening. I have the whole day to prepare, and I intend to use it well.
By the time I make it downstairs, the worst of the nausea has faded to its usual low hum. Lucia is already in the kitchen, setting out the day's bread and arranging fruit in a bowl, and she looks up when I come in.
"Signora. Happy anniversary."
"Thank you, Lucia." I pour myself a glass of water and drink it slowly, testing. "It feels strange to say that when my husband is in another country."
"He'll be back tonight, won't he? That's what the schedule said."
"That's what he promised."
She nods and goes back to her work. Lucia has been at the estate since she was sixteen, four years now, and she remembers working alongside me before the wedding, when neither of us needed to think about what to call the other.
She's never been unkind about it, though she sometimes seems unsure what I expect, but I catch her sometimes hovering between formality and the easier warmth we might have shared if I'd stayed on the other side of the house.
She calls me signora because that's correct, but the word sometimes sounds like a question.
"I'm planning to cook tonight," I tell her. "The anniversary dinner. I'll need the kitchen to myself for a few hours this afternoon, if that's all right."
"Of course. I can make sure everything's clean and ready for you. Do you need me to fetch anything from town?"
"I don't think so. I have everything I need." I pause, considering. "Actually, could you check if we have enough good vinegar? The aged one, not the everyday bottle. I want it for the vegetables."
"I'll look right now."
She disappears into the pantry, and I lean against the counter and let myself feel the first small flutter of anticipation. This is really happening. Leon is really coming home. The table will be set, the food will be ready, and for one evening it will be just us, the way he promised.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see Leon's name on the screen.
"Happy anniversary," he says when I answer, and despite everything, despite the distance and the doubts and the memory of Nadia standing in my sitting room with her reasonable explanations, I smile.
"Happy anniversary. Are you at the airport?"
"Heading there soon. Just finishing up some paperwork from last night's dinner.
" He sounds tired but warm, the Leon I remember from before all of this, the one who used to find excuses to brush past me in hallways when we were still pretending we weren't falling in love.
"I should be landing early afternoon. Home well before dinner. "
"You sound tired."
"The final dinner ran late. But it's done. The partners are happy, everything went well, and I'm finished with all of it." He pauses. "I meant what I said, Ysabel. Tonight is ours."
"I'm counting on it. I have plans for you."
"Plans?" I can hear him smiling. "Should I be worried?"
"You should be prepared to do the dishes. You promised, remember? You offered when we were planning the menu last week."
"Did I say that?"
"You absolutely said that. I remember it very clearly."
"That sounds suspiciously convenient for you."
"I have a very good memory, Leon Rosciano. And tonight, after we eat, you're going to stand at that sink and prove you know how to scrub a pot."
He laughs, that warm sound I love, the one that reminds me why I married him in the first place. "Fine. You win. I'll wash every dish in the house if that's what you want."
"Just the ones we use. I'm not unreasonable."
"You're extremely unreasonable. It's one of my favorite things about you." His voice softens. "What are you making?"
"Rosemary focaccia. Roasted vegetables with the good vinegar. Olive oil cake with orange glaze. And the almond crescents, of course."
"Of course. The ones your grandmother made."
"The ones I'm going to make better than she ever did, because I've had more practice."
"Ambitious."
"I'm an ambitious woman. You knew that when you married me."
"I did." There's something in his voice now, something quieter. "I knew exactly who I was marrying. I've never regretted it, Ysabel. Not for a single day."
The words land somewhere soft, somewhere that's been aching for exactly this. "I know."
"I should go. But I'll call you when I'm about to board, all right? So you know I'm on my way."
"All right."
"I love you."
"I love you too. Don't miss your flight."
"I won't. I promise."
I hang up and stand there for a moment, the phone warm in my hand, letting the conversation settle. He sounded sincere. He sounded like my husband, the one who defied his mother and chose me anyway. The one who's coming home.
Lucia emerges from the pantry with a bottle of vinegar. "We have plenty. And there's good olive oil too, the bottle the cook put aside."
"Perfect. Thank you."
I eat a small breakfast because I've learned that eating a little helps more than eating nothing, and then I call my mother.
She answers on the second ring. "Ysabel. Happy anniversary, my love."
"Thank you, Mama. I wanted to hear your voice before I started cooking."
"Cooking yourself? All day?"
"It's our anniversary. I want it to be from me."
She makes a sound that's half approval, half worry. "And how are you feeling? The nausea?"
"Still comes and goes. Better this morning than some days."
"You're taking care of yourself? Eating enough?"
"I'm eating, Mama. I promise."
"Good. You sound tired."
"I'm fine. Just eager for Leon to get home." I shift the phone to my other ear. "How's Papa?"
"Stubborn as ever. The goats got into the vegetable garden again and he's been out there since dawn reinforcing the fence. I told him to wait for the heat to pass but you know your father."
"I know Papa." I smile despite myself, picturing him out there muttering at the goats in the same tone he used to use on me when I was small and wouldn't listen. "Give him my love."
"I will. And Ysabel? Take care of yourself today. Don't wear yourself out trying to make everything perfect."
"I won't."
"I mean it. You matter more than any dinner."
"I know, Mama."
We say goodbye and I set the phone down, feeling steadier than I did when I woke.
My mother's voice has always had that effect on me, grounding me in something real when everything else feels uncertain.
I look around the kitchen, at the ingredients waiting to be transformed, at the hours stretching ahead of me.
The estate has staff for everything, people whose job it is to cook and clean and arrange, but today I want my hands in the dough.
I want to make something that matters.
***
The focaccia dough is rising in its bowl, covered with a cloth, when my phone buzzes again.
I wipe my hands on my apron and check the screen, expecting Leon's promised call about boarding. Instead, it's a text.
Problem with the booking. It's been canceled somehow, not by me. Sorting it out now. Will update soon.
I read it again. Canceled somehow, not by me. I had expected him to be asking for a lift from the airport by now.
I text back: What do you mean canceled?
His response takes a few minutes: They're saying my return booking was canceled. I don't know what happened. I'm at the counter now trying to get another seat.
Can you get on another one?
There's a long pause. I go back to the focaccia, punching down the dough with more force than necessary, shaping it into the pan. The rosemary is already chopped, the olive oil measured out. Everything is ready except the one thing that matters.
My phone buzzes again: They're trying to find me a seat on a later flight. Might be a few hours delayed but I should still make it for dinner. I'm sorry, Ysabel. I don't know how this happened.
I type back: Just get home. Whatever it takes.
His response is quick: I will. I promise.
I set the phone aside and focus on the focaccia, pressing dimples into the dough with my fingers, drizzling oil, scattering rosemary. The familiar motions calm me. Whatever's happening with the booking, Leon is handling it. He said he'd be here. He said he promised.