Chapter 5 What the Empty Chair Knew #2
The focaccia goes into the oven around midday, filling the kitchen with warmth and the smell of rosemary and bread.
I've been working steadily for hours, the kind of focused attention that leaves no room for the worry circling at the edges of my mind.
The vegetables are prepped and waiting to roast later.
The olive oil cake is baking in the second oven, the glaze ingredients measured and ready for when it cools.
The almond crescents are shaped and resting in the cool pantry, waiting for their final bake.
Lucia drifts through periodically, checking if I need anything, and I let her help with the washing up because my back is starting to ache and there's no virtue in suffering alone.
She doesn't ask about Leon or the anniversary or any of the things that must be obvious from my face.
She just washes dishes and wipes counters and tells me the focaccia smells incredible, which it does.
"My grandmother used to make bread like this," she says, drying her hands. "Not as fancy. But the same smell."
"The smell is the whole point. You can taste bread anywhere, but the smell of it baking is what makes it feel like home."
She nods, something warming in her expression. "Will there be anything else, signora?"
"I don't think so. I'll finish up here. You can take the afternoon off if you'd like."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Go enjoy the sun while it's still pleasant."
She hesitates, then smiles. "Happy anniversary. Again."
"Thank you, Lucia."
I eat some of the focaccia myself when it comes out of the oven, tearing off a corner and letting the rosemary and salt dissolve on my tongue. It's good. Better than good. Leon will love it, even if it's cooled by the time he arrives.
If he arrives.
No. When he arrives. He said he was sorting it out. He said he'd make it for dinner. I have to trust that.
The afternoon stretches long and golden through the windows.
I pull out the cream napkins I bought in town, the ones with the embroidered leaf border, and carry them to the dining room. The good plates come down from the cabinet, the ones Vera claims are only for important occasions, as if my anniversary doesn't qualify.
Wine glasses polished until they catch the light. Candles in the silver holders, unlit for now. The napkins folded precisely, marking two places at the long table.
I step back and look at what I've made. It's beautiful. Simple and warm and exactly what I wanted, a table that says this matters. The embroidered leaves show against the dark wood.
But he said he would. He promised.
I go back to the kitchen and check my phone.
Nothing new. The cake has cooled enough to glaze, so I drizzle the orange mixture over the top, watching it pool and settle into the crumb.
The crescents can wait until later, until I know when he's actually landing, so they'll be warm when he walks through the door.
The vegetables go into the oven in the late afternoon, timed to be ready for an evening meal. The good vinegar waits on the counter.
Everything is prepared, everything is ready, and there's nothing left to do but wait.
I hate waiting.
***
The call comes just as the light outside is beginning to soften toward evening.
"Ysabel." Leon sounds exhausted.
"Tell me."
"The seat they found me fell through. There was a mix-up with the records, someone else had a prior claim. I'm still at the airport."
I close my eyes. The vegetables are roasting. The cake is glazed. The focaccia is wrapped in cloth to keep it fresh. The table is set with cream napkins and candles I haven't lit.
"So you don't know when."
"I don't know when. I'm trying everything I can think of. There might be another option in a few hours, but I can't promise anything right now." His voice is rough. "I wanted to call instead of texting. I needed to hear you."
"I needed tonight, Leon."
The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don't take them back. The silence on the line stretches, and I hear him exhale slowly.
"I know."
"Do you? Because I've been cooking since this morning.
I set the table with the napkins I bought in town.
The ones with the leaves. I made my grandmother's crescents and I haven't even baked them yet because I wanted them warm when you walked in.
" My throat tightens. "I needed one evening. One. Where you actually showed up."
"Ysabel."
"I'm not angry at you for the booking. I know that's not your fault.
But I'm so tired of being the one who waits.
I'm so tired of setting tables you don't sit at and planning evenings you don't come home for.
And I know this trip was important, and I know I couldn't travel, and I know none of this is fair to blame you for. But I needed tonight."
He doesn't answer right away. I can hear airport noise in the background, announcements and footsteps and the distant rumble of planes that aren't taking him home.
"You're right," he says finally. "You're right about all of it. I've been gone too much. I've left you alone too much. And now the one night I swore I'd be there, I can't get back to you, and there's nothing I can do from here to fix it."
"I know there isn't."
"I'm sorry. I know that's not enough. I know sorry doesn't set me down in that chair across from you. But I am. I'm sorry for tonight and I'm sorry for all the nights before it."
I press my free hand against my eyes, trying to push back the sting. "I made olive oil cake. With orange glaze."
"That sounds perfect."
"It is perfect. It's sitting on the counter being perfect and you're not here to eat it."
"Save me a piece?"
"Maybe." I almost smile, though it hurts. "If you're lucky."
"I'll take lucky. I'll take anything you're willing to give me." He pauses. "I'm going to keep trying. The moment I know something concrete, I'll call you. I can't tell you when I'll be home, but I will be home. That's the only thing I can promise right now."
"Okay."
"I love you. I know that doesn't fix anything either, but I love you."
"I love you too." I look at the kitchen, at everything I made today, at the evening I planned that's slipping away hour by hour. "Go find a flight. I'll be here."
"Happy anniversary, Ysabel. Even like this. Especially like this."
"Happy anniversary."
The line goes quiet, and I set the phone down on the counter.
My eyes sting, and I have to press my palms against them until the feeling passes.
The vegetables are done. I pull them from the oven and drizzle the good vinegar over them while they're still hot, the way my mother taught me. They smell perfect. They'll still be good rewarmed, if it comes to that. Everything will still be good. The food isn't the problem.
The problem is the empty chair.
I eat a little of everything, standing at the counter, because not eating won't bring Leon home any faster and I've been cooking all day.
The focaccia is excellent. The vegetables are rich and sweet from the vinegar.
The cake tastes like oranges and sunshine.
The crescents I leave in the pantry, still unbaked, because I want them warm when he arrives and I don't know when that will be.
When. I keep saying when. I have to keep saying when, because if I start saying if, I'll fall apart.
I carry the food to the dining room and set it on the sideboard, covered for now. The table stays set, the candles still unlit. I'll light them when he calls to say he's boarding. I'll light them when I know for certain he's on his way.
The house is quiet around me, quieter than it's been in days.
Vera is overseas with her plans and her schemes.
Nadia is wherever Nadia goes when she's not occupying space that should be mine.
The staff have finished in these rooms, their work taking them elsewhere in the house.
I'm alone with my anniversary dinner and my empty table and my phone that refuses to ring with good news.
I drift to the small parlor where the television lives, the one room Vera considers too informal for guests. I don't usually watch much, but the silence is pressing against my ears and I need something to fill the space while I wait.
The remote is cold in my hand. I flip through channels without really seeing them: news, cooking shows, a film I don't recognize. I'm about to give up and sit in silence when a description in the program guide catches my eye.
Regional interest segment. Tenuta Rosciano estate launch: Sicilian tradition meets international markets.
I know what this is. I know whose estate they mean.
My finger hovers over the button. I shouldn't watch. Whatever they're showing about the launch, it won't change that Leon is stranded in an airport and I'm alone with a dinner going cold. But I want to see him. Just for a moment. Just his face on a screen, since I can't have him across the table.
I select the channel.
The program opens with sweeping footage of olive groves, the familiar golden light of the southern coast rendered strange through the television's frame.
A presenter's voice begins speaking about heritage and innovation, about families who have worked this land for generations, about the Rosciano name and what it represents.
Any moment now they'll show him. Any moment I'll see my husband's face.
I pull my knees up on the settee and wrap my arms around them, watching the screen, waiting for a glimpse of the man I married. This is what our anniversary has become. Me in an empty room, watching television to see a husband who should be sitting beside me.