Chapter 9
MARA
I’m staying in the guest room tonight. Livia has a migraine, so she reluctantly asked me to stay, clearly bothered by having to make the request. I try to think about what Ettore said. She’s not as cold as she seems? Well, she’s doing one hell of an acting job.
In bed, I look at the last text I sent to Ettore.
Mara: I read Sylvie her favorite story then knitted until she fell asleep.
Ettore reacted with a thumbs up, but there’s no reply.
I noticed some distance at breakfast. It made me feel silly for getting up early and applying that extra makeup, straightening my hair.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I just wanted to feel pretty.
Not for him, exactly. Or not completely for him.
I felt hot when he stared at me with that complete, hungry captivation.
Tonight, maybe because there’s some distance between the intensity on the porch and now, I’m able to push away some of those fantasies. Just a little. But he’s still there, a persistent presence in my mind.
My phone vibrates. I snatch it up immediately.
Ettore: Are you awake?
It’s him.
Mara: Yeah, why?
Ettore: I’m sorry I couldn’t be home for dinner tonight.
I almost tell him it’s not me he should be apologizing to. The fact he’s even apologizing is shocking.
Ettore: I’m going to tell Sylvie tomorrow. And I know what you’re thinking. Sorry isn’t enough. I should’ve been there. Believe me, I know. But sometimes, there are things I have to do, things which can’t wait.
Mara: Running a business can’t be easy.
Ettore: I would never put money before my daughter.
I’m not sure what to do with that. Isn’t that what he does every time he decides to stay late at work? I understand, as the boss, he must have a lot of responsibilities. People are relying on him for their salaries. But he could delegate. He could set clearer work-life boundaries.
Mara: Did you talk to Sylvie about the picture?
Ettore: What can I say about that?
Mara: Maybe that you want to spend more time with her, or even that you’re going to. If you say the second bit, though, make sure you don’t break the promise. There’s nothing more painful for a little kid.
Ettore: You mentioned foster parents before, Mara. Are you speaking from experience?
I bite down, feeling like he’s reaching into my brain, my heart, places he has no business being. But this is what I want, surely. To help this man to open up, to be more emotionally available. That will be good for his daughter… or that’s the story I’m telling myself.
Mara: Yes. Many people made many promises to me as a kid. It messed with my head. But I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman. That’s all behind me now. Nonetheless it hurt at the time.
Ettore: I’m sorry you had to go through that. But I’m shocked to hear you say that it’s behind you. In my experience, childhood’s claws never stop grasping. I’m forty-two and I still feel it.
I swallow, emotion tugging at me. And something else. There’s another complication, right? His age, fifteen years older. I should care about that. But also, I think, we’re both grown adults and we can do what we want. I honestly don’t even care. Maybe it’d be easier if I did.
Ettore: I realize the irony. I’m talking about the aftereffects of childhood and my daughter is drawing me in bleakness. I get it, Mara. I’m trying.
Mara: I know you’re trying. I’ve seen you with her.
I pause, chewing my lip.
Mara: Perhaps you’re right. Maybe the claws of childhood never let you go and that’s just something I tell myself. It doesn’t matter now. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other.
Ettore: Amen to that.
Ettore: You looked beautiful today by the way. You did something different with your hair. And your makeup looked like it took time and effort.
I drop the phone, my head spinning. A simple compliment, fired out of nowhere, shouldn’t be enough to provoke this response in me.
Mara: Way to change the subject.
Ettore: I know I shouldn’t say things like that.
Mara: I don’t mind.
Ettore: I know you don’t. That’s what scares me. This is about Sylvie. Not us.
The word us burns into me, my body aching.
Mara: There is no “us.”
I send the message because I have to. One of us has to stop this before it gets started.
Ettore: You’re right.
Mara: Are you drunk?
Ettore: Would that make it better? If I was writing this by mistake, if I didn’t mean it?
I don’t know how to answer that. I’m not sure if it would make it worse or better or anything in between. I just wish I could think clearly when it comes to this mysterious man.
Mara: I should get some rest.
I put my phone down, switching it to silent. In the dark, alone, a smile spreads across my face.
He notices the effort I made today. He really noticed…and he liked it.
When I hear Sylvie murmuring outside my room, I leap to my feet and rush to the door. I follow the sound, finding her inside a bedroom I’ve never thought to look inside because I always assumed it was locked. There’s a keyhole with a key inside now.
Within, I find Sylvie lying on a large bed, knees drawn to her chest, whispering. “Mommy,” she whispers. “Mommy, Mommy.” She sounds sleepy, not all there. If she wasn’t a kid, I’d say she sounds drunk.
I glance around the room, chest going tight. This must be the bedroom Ettore and his ex-wife shared. Vera, I know her name was, though I’ve never seen a picture of her. Now, there are several on the walls. Tall and dark and elegant, and so… not me.
No, Mara. This isn’t about you.
I go to the bed, looking down at Sylvie.
Her eyes are closed as she writhes and whimpers.
I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her.
The only thing I know about sleepwalkers is that you shouldn’t ever wake them.
So, I wait, looking around the room, at the photos, the vanity, and the jewelry boxes littering its surface.
A few minutes pass until finally Sylvie goes still.
I gently pick her up and carry her through the house. Livia is standing at her bedroom door in her nightgown, bleary-eyed. “Is she okay?” she asks tightly.
“Sleepwalking,” I murmur.
“Oh, sweet thing. It’s been a while since she’s done that.”
“She’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m taking her back to bed.”
“Thank you, Mara,” Livia says, sounding gentler than I’ve ever heard her.
“How’s the migraine?” I ask.
A small smile. “Getting there—thank you again.”
I return Sylvie to bed and pull her blanket over her. After sitting with her for a few minutes, I leave, making sure her night light is switched on. I walk through the house to Vera’s bedroom because I’m pretty sure I forgot to shut the door.
I almost scream when I see the large silhouette standing in the dark.
Ettore turns to me slowly. The light from the hall shows his square jaw and chiseled face. His eyes smolder as they roam up and down my body… oh, crap! I’m wearing my underwear, nothing else, just my bra and panties.
How didn’t I realize that until now? It’s a cool night, and it didn’t even occur to me.
If Sylvie had woken up, she would’ve noticed it, and I would’ve quickly excused myself to pull on a robe or some PJs.
Livia didn’t remark on it when I walked by.
Why would she? We’re just two grown women sharing a space.
“Why was this door open?” Ettore says, voice husky, walking slowly toward me.
I resist the urge to cover myself. I don’t want to draw attention to my body. He hasn’t said anything about it.
He stops just short of me, his scent wrapping around me, woodsy and manly. I imagine him asking me if the rest of me is as hot as my hand was, and my heart hammers like a drum.
“Sylvie was sleepwalking,” I murmur. “She was calling out for her mother.”
Ettore sighs, massaging the bridge of his eyebrows.
“She didn’t wake. I sat with her until she calmed down, then took her to bed. She probably won’t even remember she was here.”
“She will. Deep down. I should get rid of this room.”
“It must be hard.”
He takes another step forward. What is he doing? Who does he think he is?
But when he reaches up and grabs a handful of my hip, I don’t stop him. Instead, I let out a telltale sigh that gives him all the signals. “It’s not what you think,” he groans. “This isn’t a shrine. It’s… something else.”
His hand comes to my other hip.
“Look at you, Mara,” he says, voice tight.
“In the mirror?”
He smirks. “So clever. It’s an expression. This body…”
He pulls me closer. I lean back, resisting, a little. Just about stopping myself. We’re in his dead wife’s bedroom. What is he thinking? But that’s the thing. I can tell he’s not thinking at all. I can feel his need in his grip, his heat.
“I should get some rest,” I murmur. It takes my all to say this.
He squeezes me for a moment longer, then lets go. “Me too.” He pushes past me, letting me feel just how badly he wants me, a solid length of thickness pressing hard against my belly through his pants. “Though I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”
He leaves me there, breathing hard, nerves alight and body so, so ready for him to turn around and carry me to bed.
When his footsteps fade away, I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.