Chapter 4 A Place Kept in Shadow #3
Something loosens in my chest at that, some knot of shame I didn't realize I was carrying. "I thought they might be wondering why I'm never there. Why the Don's wife stays home while someone else takes her place."
"Some people wonder. But most people understand that Vera's been running that estate like her personal kingdom since before you were born, and that fighting her is like fighting the tide."
"She's not trying to break me."
"Isn't she?"
I don't have an answer to that. I think about the sitting room, about the careful way Vera presented her practical solution, about the glance she exchanged with Nadia that I was meant to see.
About all the small exclusions and polite corrections and moments when I've been reminded, gently but firmly, that I don't quite belong.
"Maybe," I say finally. "Maybe she is."
Gia reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. "You don't have to let her win. You know that, right? Whatever she's planning, whatever she's building with that woman, you're still his wife. You're still the one he comes home to."
"That's what I keep telling myself."
"And?"
"And I want to believe it. I really do. But believing something and knowing it are different things, and lately I'm not sure I know anything at all."
We sit quietly for a moment, the cafe murmuring around us, the afternoon light slanting through the windows. I pick up one of the crackers and take a small bite, testing whether my stomach will accept it. It does, and I feel ridiculously grateful for such a small victory.
"Do you remember," Gia says, "when we were seventeen and you told me you were going to open a bakeshop someday? Right there on the corner, where the old cobbler used to be?"
I smile despite myself. "I remember. Almond biscuits and orange cakes and those little fig pastries my grandmother used to make."
"You were so certain. You had the whole thing planned out. The recipes, the hours, the little tables where people would sit and eat and feel like they were visiting your home."
"That was a long time ago."
"Dreams don't expire, Ysabel."
"Maybe not. But I shelved that one deliberately. I wanted to focus on the marriage, on building something with Leon. There didn't seem to be room for both."
"And now?"
I turn the cracker over in my fingers, considering. "I showed him my plans, actually. Before the reception. The recipes, the layout, everything I'd been sketching in the margins of notebooks for years. He said we'd discuss it later."
"Later." Gia's tone is dry. "The favorite word of men who don't want to say no outright."
"He meant it kindly. There's been so much happening with the launch, with Vera's plans, with all of it. I understood."
"You always understand. That's the problem."
"What's the alternative? Demand he drop everything to look at floor plans for a bakeshop that doesn't exist yet?"
"You could demand he take you seriously. That's not the same as demanding he drop everything." She picks up her cold coffee and drinks it anyway, grimacing. "Though I suppose demanding things of the Don is complicated."
"Leon isn't unreasonable. He's just busy. And his mother takes up a lot of the air in any room."
"Vera can't actually stop you, you know. From opening a shop. From doing anything you want to do."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
"Yes." I meet her eyes, steadier than I feel. "She's not my mother. She's not my employer. She has opinions about everything I do, and she makes sure I hear them, but she doesn't have the power to forbid me anything. I chose to wait. I chose to focus on the marriage first."
"And how's that working out?"
The question sits between us, uncomfortable and fair.
"I don't know yet," I say finally. "Ask me after the anniversary."
Gia snorts. "Fair enough. I'll hold you to that." She signals for the check. "Now tell me what else is happening in your life that doesn't involve Vera's machinations."
We talk for another half hour about smaller things, easier things, until the light through the window turns golden and I know the driver has been waiting long enough.
Gia walks me back to the car, her hand on my elbow, steadying without fussing. The driver sees us coming and opens the rear door.
"Here." Gia takes the wrapped napkins from under my arm and settles them on the seat beside me, tucking the parcel so it won't slide. "Your anniversary linens. Very domestic. Very hopeful."
"Hopeful is all I've got right now."
"Hopeful is enough to start with." She leans against the open door, her expression warm but serious. "You know what I think? I think you deserve a husband who stands beside you where people can see. Not just at home, not just when it's easy. Beside you."
"I know."
"Good. Then make sure he knows it too."
She steps back and closes the door, lifting her hand in a wave as the car pulls away. I watch her figure shrink in the rear window until we turn the corner and she's gone.
The napkins sit on the seat beside me, cream colored with their delicate leaf border. Two place settings. I chose them for a table I'll set, for an evening Leon promised he'd be home for, for an anniversary that's five days away.
I can only set the table. I can't make him sit down.