21. In a Faraway Land of Unwanted Conversations
IN A FARAWAY LAND OF UNWANTED CONVERSATIONS
C hiara Conti was exhausted. The previous night had left her emotionally battered, with Vi asleep in her arms, tears still drying on those haunted cheeks and Chiara’s heart responding with a painful contraction to each twitch and soft whimper Vi let out.
She’d looked forward to the morning; to an hour alone in her workshop, an hour to draw, to drink her cappuccino, to collect her thoughts, and to tuck away the scattered emotions that kept pulling her in all directions.
She was looking forward to making peace with her newly acquired knowledge that she was in love with Vi, and this was now something she would need to address, at least for herself.
Ideally, she would have liked to get all those things done before Vi and her team descended on Chiaroscuro for the long day of shooting and interviews.
Except the visitor at her front door pretty much ensured that, not only did Chiara not have anything to look forward to where the morning was concerned, she also had to rapidly raise all her defenses. The ones she’d mostly forgotten how to erect after years of not having to deal with her ex-wife.
As it was, she sidestepped Frankie and jiggled her keys as she stood in front of the townhouse.
She had never regretted having an apartment in the same building as her studio and shop, the flat nestled under the roof, with a beautiful view and a convenient lack of a commute.
But with Frankie here, Chiara resented that convenience just a little.
Because it made her vulnerable to exactly these kinds of visits.
She couldn’t even take any consolation in looking good.
She knew she had no such armor to hide behind.
In yesterday’s finery—now severely tainted by a long night of twisting, turning, staring at the ceiling and holding Vi—she looked like she was making the infamous walk of shame.
And perhaps she’d flaunt that in Frankie’s smug face, if only it were true.
As it was, Chiara was clutching her shawl around herself in a desperate attempt to cover up the marks Vi had left two nights ago.
Perhaps reading her thoughts, the smirk on her ex-wife's mouth grew lewder.
“Long night?”
“You came all this way from wherever you’ve been the past however many years to inquire about my night? What a waste of time, if you ask me.”
To her surprise, her words—which were rather tame by anyone’s standard, but certainly by her own, considering they had said so many, much more hurtful things to each other over the years—wiped the grin off Frankie’s face.
“Apologies.”
Chiara almost gasped, but stopped herself at the last second, her sense of self-preservation kicking in.
“That easy? Are you okay, Frankie? No fever? And you should probably quit whatever charade this is. I am really not ready for it to snow in September.”
Frankie gave her a long look, one Chiara couldn’t decipher, then lowered her eyes.
“I’m sincere, babe.”
She pulled a pack of Marlboros from her leather jacket and Chiara watched with something akin to a déjà vu as the oh-so-familiar fingers performed the ubiquitous dance of tearing the filter off and flicking the Zippo to life.
As she searched for something to say, anything to end this dreadful silence that could only stretch between two people who were nothing to each other and no longer had anything to talk about, the door behind her was flung open, and Chiara could swear Aoife actually growled.
“What is it with all these bad pennies just effin’ turning up around here these days? Are you lost then, Lilienfeld?”
Despite the reference that lumped Vi and Frankie into the same category, that was where the similarities ended.
There was no warmth in Aoife’s features, no begrudging welcome like the one she had bestowed on Vi after the initial ribbing.
Here, it was open hostility, and Chiara winced, her frayed emotions abraded further as Frankie took a long drag and blew out the acrid smoke, enveloping Chiara whole.
“Wasn’t aware I needed your permission to be on this sidewalk, Sully. This being the land of the free, or whatever bullshit they claim...”
Chiara tuned out the rest of the sermon.
Now this was the Frankie she knew. This was the Frankie who had hounded her in Paris for an entire year after she’d filed for the divorce.
This was the Frankie that was painfully familiar.
The one with the moralizing speeches and logical fallacies, sprinkled with a wounded expression that was fooling no one, least of all Chiara.
Still, one thing was certain: the sidewalk was no place for this argument. Someone was bound to recognize them, and Frankie and Aoife’s bickering—something about rotten fish—was already turning heads.
Chiara rubbed the bridge of her nose, yesterday’s contact lenses irritating her eyes. She was beginning to regret ever getting up from Vi’s bed. Surely, an awkward conversation with her would not have been this painful.
As the voices around her rose in volume and in insults, Chiara had enough.
“Children, how about we take this inside?”
“How about Frankie leaves? She’s not welcome here!” Aoife shot back immediately, and Frankie smiled victoriously.
“I love you too, Sully.”
Chiara rolled her eyes at the two of them as she held the door open. Once inside, she laid a calming hand on Aoife’s arm, squeezing gently.
“I’ll handle this. You should get the showroom ready. The crew will be here in about an hour, and once they arrive, it’ll be nonstop go, go, go for the day. Help me out here, Sully.”
Her eyes must have been particularly pleading, because for once, Aoife didn’t argue and simply shook her head and disappeared into the beautiful fall tones of the silks and satins strewn all over the showroom.
“Well, now—” As they walked towards the staircase, whatever Frankie had been about to say was interrupted by a stern voice that made even Chiara wince.
“Never would I have thought, Franziska Marie Lilienfeld. You had better be dying or something equally irrevocable to show your face after everything you pulled in Paris. What the hell are you doing here?”
Renate’s bark was merciless. Unlike with Aoife though, Frankie just laughed at her sister.
“Missed you too, sis. And how are you?”
Before Renate could blow a gasket and do anything drastic, such as throw something heavy and sharp at Frankie, Chiara started to take the steps to the studio two at a time and motioned for her ex-wife to follow her.
“Renate, please, I will handle this. Go see if Aoife needs any help—”
“I will do no such thing. I will be right here in case you need assistance or if she gets up to no good.”
Chiara closed her eyes, counted to ten and kept walking up towards the studio.
She didn’t want to let Frankie into her apartment, so her work area with its large, open floor plan would have to do.
Plenty of space there to avoid whatever it was her ex-wife was trying to achieve with this early morning, five-years-too-late visit.
“I love what you’ve done with the place, Chiara. Though I have to say that this is like running a gauntlet before reaching Sleeping Beauty. All those dragons downstairs…” Frankie laughed again, the low, raspy tones of the familiar sound doing nothing to calm Chiara’s thundering heart.
A second later, Frankie yelped and clutched at her ankle as Binoche stubbornly swiped at her.
The sound of the angry cat, the curses of Frankie trying to protect herself, along with the shouts emanating from downstairs as Renate and Aoife sparred over something in the showroom, started to overwhelm Chiara.
Yesterday’s clothes chafed, seeming too small and suddenly uncomfortable. The level of the sounds coming at her from everywhere made her want to put her hands over her ears. But she couldn’t do that, no matter how much she wanted to. Instead, she scooped up Binoche and glared at Frankie.
“I’m exhausted, I didn’t get any sleep last night, and I have a very long day ahead of me. So before I sic the cat on you again, why are you here, Frankie?”
Binoche squirmed in her hold, but she figured it was premature to let her go just yet.
Not that she pitied Frankie’s ankles, which, by the looks of them, had taken considerable abuse from the cat’s attack.
But another round of screeching and yelping would simply be too much, regardless of the sadistic pleasure she might deride from allowing the protective feline to have one more go.
Frankie straightened and looked Chiara dead in the eye, hands finding her trousers’ pockets.
“I’m here for you .”
Well, maybe she should give Binoche one more shot after all. Especially when Frankie was talking nonsense like this.
“Here for me?” She repeated, trying to process her ex-wife’s point even as the meaning of the sentence was all too clear to her tired mind.
“I want you back, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes.” Mindful of the cat, Frankie approached Chiara carefully, laying a hand on her cheek. A sudden movement in the doorway interrupted Binoche’s loud meow.
“You forgot your phone at my place, Chiara. And I’m sorry I was still too out of it to see you on your way this morn…”
Vi trailed off, seeing Frankie standing much too close, her hand still on Chiara’s face, and the devastation in those beautiful features, still pale and bearing the signs of yesterday’s disastrous encounter, was painful to observe.
Frankie gave Vi a long once-over and raised an insouciant eyebrow at Chiara, who wanted to bang her head against the wall. Frustration, exhaustion, and guilt over Vi seeing her with Frankie were bubbling inside her.
On cue, sensing Chiara’s mood, Binoche made a valiant leap onto the floor, and with one last swipe at Frankie, stalked towards Vi, who scooped her up gently, and in whose arms the cat started to purr loudly.