18. Danielle
— ? —
Danielle
The restaurant is busier than it’s ever been.
Word spreads in small towns, and word about Cucina di Nonna has spread fast. We’ve gone from a handful of loyal locals to weekend crowds that spill out the door, tourists who read about us in some blog and drove two hours to try my grandmother’s recipes.
Talia is working full shifts now, learning the rhythms of front-of-house between her classes, and I’ve hired two more people for the kitchen - a young woman named Lucia who can cook and an older man named Bruno who washes dishes like it’s a sacred calling.
Niccolo still comes every night.
He sits at his corner table, orders something different from the menu, pays his bill, and leaves.
But lately he’s been staying later, helping stack chairs after closing, carrying boxes from the delivery truck.
He doesn’t ask permission and I don’t tell him to stop.
I’m not sure what that means. Tonight, he arrives earlier than usual - just as the dinner rush is starting - and instead of taking his regular table, he catches my eye across the room and gestures toward the small patio out back.
“Five minutes?” he mouths.
I nod. When I find him on the patio, he’s pacing, which is unusual. Niccolo doesn’t pace. Niccolo stands very still and lets the world come to him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just-” He stops, turns to face me. “I talked to Charlotte.”
Something tightens in my chest. “When?”
“This morning. She called, wanting to apologize for what happened at your mother’s house. She said she got carried away, that she didn’t mean any of it, that she hopes we can all move past this misunderstanding.”
“And you said?”
“I said there’s nothing to move past, because there was never anything between us to begin with.
” He holds my gaze. “I told her clearly, Dani. I said that I love my wife. That I’ve only ever loved my wife.
That whatever she thought might happen between us was never going to happen, and that I need her to stop interfering in my marriage. ”
“What did she say?”
“She tried to argue. Brought up our history, our families, all the reasons we supposedly make sense together. I told her that making sense on paper doesn’t mean anything when your heart belongs to someone else.
And then I told her that if she contacts you again, or shows up at your family’s home again, or tries to undermine our relationship in any way, I’ll make sure everyone in our social circle knows exactly what she’s been doing. ”
I blink. “You threatened her?”
“I set a boundary. A firm one.” He moves closer, close enough that I can see the tension in his shoulders.
“I know I should have done this months ago. Years ago. When Charlotte first came back and my mother started using her as a weapon, I should have shut it down immediately. I didn’t, and I’m sorry.
But I’m doing it now. And I’m telling you directly, because you deserve to know. ”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you telling me? You could have just handled it and let me find out later.”
“Because that’s what the old me would have done. Handle things privately, keep you in the dark, assume you didn’t need to be involved.” He shakes his head. “I’m trying to be different, Dani. I’m trying to communicate, even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when I’m not sure how you’ll react.”
I don’t know what to say to that. For three years, I begged for this - for honesty, for inclusion, for the basic respect of being told what was happening in my own marriage. And now he’s standing in front of me, doing exactly what I asked, and I don’t know how to receive it.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For telling me.”
“You’re welcome.” He hesitates. “There’s something else.”
“Of course there is.”
“Not bad. At least, I hope not bad.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I have a friend - Don Leon Rosciano - who has a property in Sicily. Near the coast, very private. He offered it to me for a week. No obligations, no family, no anything. Just… space.”
I take the paper, unfold it. It’s a printed photograph of a small house overlooking the sea, white walls and blue shutters and bougainvillea climbing the walls.
“Sicily,” I repeat.
“I know it’s a lot to ask. I know we’re still-” He gestures vaguely at the space between us. “But I thought maybe, if you wanted, we could get away for a few days. Together. Somewhere that belongs to neither of us. Somewhere we could just… be. Without all of this.”
My first instinct is to say no. It’s too fast, too much, too soon after the kiss in the restaurant and the confrontation with Charlotte and all the careful distance I’ve been trying to maintain. But I’m so tired of distance.
“Just a few days?” I ask.
“However long you want. We can come back anytime.”
“And if I decide I need space while we’re there?”
“Then I’ll give you space. I’ll sleep on the couch. I’ll stay in a separate room. Whatever you need.”
I look at the photograph again. The house looks peaceful. It looks like the kind of place where you could think clearly, away from the noise and pressure of everything else.
“November,” I say slowly. “The restaurant slows down in November. Talia’s been asking to run things herself for a few days, prove she can handle it.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a maybe. A strong maybe.” I fold the photograph and hand it back to him. “Let me think about it.”
“Take all the time you need.”
He turns to go back inside, and I reach out and catch his sleeve.
“Niccolo?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For handling Charlotte. For telling me. For all of it.” I let go of his sleeve. “I know I don’t make this easy for you.”
“You don’t have to make it easy. You just have to let me try.”
He goes back inside, and I stand on the patio for a long moment, watching the sun set over Vallechiara, holding the possibility of Sicily in my hands like something fragile and precious.
Later that night, after the restaurant is closed and the dishes are done and Talia has gone home, I send him a text.
November twentieth. One week. But I want my own room.
His response comes immediately.
Done. I’ll make the arrangements.
I put down my phone and look around the empty restaurant, this place I built with my own hands and my own money and my own stubborn refusal to give up. Something is shifting between us. Something I’m not ready to name. But for the first time in months, I’m not afraid of it.