Chapter 3 The Woman They Chose for Him #3
The nausea comes and goes, worse in the morning, better by afternoon. I drink ginger tea and eat dry bread and tell myself it's just stress, just the pressure of the past few days catching up with me.
By the time Leon returns in the evening, I've worked myself into a quiet, simmering resentment that I don't know how to express. He finds me in the sitting room, curled up in a chair with my recipe notebook in my lap, and his face lights up when he sees me.
"There you are. I missed you today."
"Did you."
"Lunch went on forever. My mother has opinions about everything." He drops into the chair across from me and rubs the back of his neck. "They asked after you."
"I hope you gave them my love."
He studies me for a moment, picking up on something in my tone. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"You've been tired a lot lately. And unwell. I'm worried about you."
"Don't be." I close the notebook and set it aside. "Leon, our anniversary is coming up."
His expression softens. "I know. I've been thinking about it."
"I want to do something. Just us. Dinner here, maybe. Something quiet."
"I'd like that." He reaches across the space between us and takes my hand. "The launch events will be wrapping up around then. The timing should work perfectly."
"You promise you'll be here? No meetings, no emergencies, no your mother needs me for something?"
"I promise." He squeezes my fingers. "Our anniversary. Just us. I'll make sure nothing interferes."
I look down at our hands. I had meant to ask him to check his calendar first. Instead I let him keep holding mine.
"I'll plan the menu," I say. "Something special. My grandmother's recipes."
"That sounds perfect."
"And you'll be here. Home. The whole evening."
"The whole evening." He brings my hand to his lips. "I wouldn't miss it for anything."
I hold his gaze for a moment, searching for the certainty I need to find there. He looks sincere. He looks like he means every word. But he always looks like that, and promises have a way of bending when his mother applies pressure.
"Do you remember our first anniversary?" I ask. "When the oven broke halfway through dinner and we ended up eating bread and cheese on the kitchen floor?"
Leon laughs. I haven't heard him laugh like that at any of these dinners. "You cried because the lamb was ruined."
"I did not cry. I was frustrated. There's a difference."
"You were crying."
"Fine. I was crying. But you said it was the best anniversary dinner you'd ever had."
"It was." He's still holding my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "The lamb didn't matter. Being there with you mattered."
"Then this year, you just have to show up. I'll handle the rest."
"I'll be there." He squeezes my fingers once more, then releases them and stands, stretching his shoulders. "What are you going to make? Besides the almond biscuits, obviously."
"I'm thinking about the olive oil cake. Maybe the rosemary bread you liked."
"The one with the crispy edges?"
"That's the one."
"I'll do the dishes after." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like of course he'll stay and help clean up after the meal I've cooked. It's such a small thing. Such an ordinary thing. But it lands somewhere soft in me, somewhere that's been braced for disappointment.
"Deal," I say.
He picks up the book I abandoned earlier and settles back into his chair. "Don't stay up too late planning menus."
"I make no promises."
He grins. For a while neither of us says anything, and it is a relief to have him here without needing to explain myself.
The sitting room is quiet around me. Through the windows, the last light is bleeding out of the sky, turning the almond groves to shadow. I pull my recipe notebook into my lap and flip to a blank page, smoothing my hand across the paper.
Anniversary dinner, I write at the top. Then underneath: Rosemary focaccia. Olive oil cake with orange glaze. The almond biscuits, obviously. Maybe the roasted vegetables with the good vinegar, the ones my mother taught me before she and my father moved to the farm.
I pause over the vegetables. He likes the edges almost burnt, the way my father makes them. I add a little note beside the recipe, then stop. There is a week to decide what we eat. I don't need to solve the whole dinner tonight.
Across from me, Leon turns a page. I want to tell him that the woman he brought home two years ago would never have thought to ask him to promise this. She would have taken for granted that he wanted to be there. But he catches me looking and smiles, and I smile back.
I set down my pen and look at the list. Four dishes, maybe five if I add the soup.
A table set for two in the dining room, or maybe the small breakfast room where the light is better.
Candles. The good napkins. Two chairs pulled close together, close enough that our knees might touch underneath the table.
I picture it clearly: Leon across from me, the food between us, the evening stretching out unhurried and ours.
One week until our anniversary, and I'm already setting his place in my mind.