Chapter 9 Beyond the Rosciano Gates
YSABEL
I wake to the sound of goats complaining outside the window.
For a moment I don't know where I am. The ceiling is wrong, too low and painted plain white instead of the ornate plasterwork at the estate.
Then the smell of coffee reaches me from somewhere down the hall, and I remember.
My parents' farm. The guest room my mother prepared.
The test I took yesterday that changed everything.
I press my hand against my stomach, a gesture that's already becoming habit even though there's nothing to feel yet. Just flat skin and the knowledge of what's beneath it.
The nausea is there when I sit up, the familiar roll that's been my companion for weeks. I reach for the crackers I asked my mother to leave on the nightstand and eat two of them slowly, waiting for my body to decide whether it will cooperate.
Outside, my father's voice rises above the goats' bleating, something about the fence again. Morning light falls through the thin curtains, warm and golden, nothing like the heavy drapes at the estate that block out everything until someone opens them.
I check my phone. A text from Leon, sent last night: I'm home. I found the papers. I'm not asking you to talk until you're ready, but I want you to know I received them. I'm sorry, Ysabel.
I read it twice. He found the papers. He knows what I've started. And he's sorry, though sorry for what exactly he doesn't say. Sorry for missing the anniversary. Sorry for the canceled booking. Sorry for standing beside Nadia on television while I sat alone watching.
I set the phone face-down on the nightstand without responding. I'm not ready to talk to him. I don't know when I will be.
The recipe notebook sits on the dresser where I unpacked it yesterday, its worn leather cover familiar and grounding.
Beside it, my laptop bag leans against the wall, the "Someday" folder still waiting inside with all my bakeshop plans.
I haven't opened it since I got here. I'm not sure I'm ready for that either.
I get up slowly, testing my balance, and pull on clothes that feel like mine instead of clothes that feel like a costume. Jeans soft from washing. A loose shirt that doesn't pinch anywhere. My hair I leave down, not caring how it looks.
In the kitchen, my mother is frying eggs while my father sits at the small wooden table with a cup of coffee, dirt already on his boots from the morning's work.
"There she is," he says when I appear in the doorway. "We were starting to think you'd sleep through lunch."
"It's barely eight o'clock."
"That's practically afternoon around here." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit. Eat. You look like you need it."
I sit. My mother sets a plate in front of me without asking what I want: eggs, toast, a few slices of tomato from the garden. I eat slowly, carefully, waiting to see if my stomach will accept it.
"The goats got out again," my father says. "That one with the crooked ear, she's figured out how to unlatch the gate. I'm going to have to rig something more complicated."
"Or you could just accept that she's smarter than you," my mother says.
"I will accept no such thing."
I almost smile. This is what I missed at the estate. This easy bickering, this warmth that doesn't come with conditions attached. My parents don't care if I know which fork to use or how to greet foreign investors. They just want me to eat breakfast.
"I thought I might help with something today," I say. "If there's work that needs doing."
My parents exchange a glance.
"There's always work," my mother says. "But you don't have to push yourself. You just got here."
"I want to. I need something to do with my hands."
My father nods slowly. "The almonds need sorting. I brought in a few baskets yesterday, and they need to be spread out for drying. Nothing heavy. You could do that in the shade if you wanted."
"That sounds good."
After breakfast, I follow him out to the small barn where the almonds are stored.
The baskets are lined up along one wall, full of the pale shells I remember from childhood, from watching the estate workers do this same task in the big drying sheds.
My father shows me the setup he's made, wooden trays where the almonds can be spread in single layers, a covered area that gets airflow but stays out of direct sun.
"Take your time," he says. "There's no rush on any of this."
He leaves me alone with the almonds, and I settle onto the low stool he's placed by the trays. The work is simple and repetitive: take a handful from the basket, spread them out, check for any that are damaged or discolored. The rhythm of it is soothing in a way I didn't expect.
I think about the bakeshop I've been planning for years.
The almond biscuits I want to sell, the ones from my grandmother's recipe. I could use almonds from this farm, I realize. My parents' almonds, grown on their own land. It would mean something, to build a business from ingredients my family harvested themselves.
The thought sits warm in my chest, a small bright thing in the middle of everything dark.
Gia calls in the afternoon.
I'm still in the shade by the barn, working through the second basket of almonds, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I wipe my hands on my jeans and answer.
"How are you doing?" she asks without preamble.
"I'm sorting almonds."
"That's not what I asked."
I lean back against the barn wall and look out at the hills beyond the farm. "I don't know how I'm doing. I'm here. I'm eating. I'm keeping busy. That's about all I can say."
"Did you take the test?"
My hand goes to my stomach again, that instinctive gesture. "Yes."
"And?"
I close my eyes. I've been carrying this alone since yesterday, this knowledge that changes everything. Gia is the only person who knows I even took the test. She bought it for me, drove across town to a pharmacy where no one would recognize her. I want to tell someone I trust.
"It was positive," I say quietly.
The silence on the other end stretches for a long moment.
"Oh, Ysabel."
"I know."
"Are you... how are you feeling about it?"
"Terrified. Overwhelmed. Also strangely protective of someone I haven't even met.
" I laugh, but it comes out wrong, more like a sob.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to feel.
I just know I can't tell anyone else yet.
Not my parents, not Leon. I need time to figure out what this means before I have to deal with everyone else's reactions. "
"I won't say anything. I promise."
"Thank you."
"Have you thought about what you're going to do? About the pregnancy, I mean. Or about Leon."
"I've thought about nothing else since I saw those two lines.
" I pull my knees up on the stool, making myself smaller.
"I want this baby. That much I know. But everything else is a mess.
I'm in the middle of leaving my husband.
His mother has spent two years trying to push me out.
And now I'm carrying a Rosciano heir, which is going to complicate things in ways I can't even predict. "
"You don't have to figure it all out right now."
"I know. But I can't stop thinking about it." I watch a bird land on the fence post nearby. "Vera is going to have opinions. She's going to want to be involved, to control things. And Leon..." I trail off.
"What about Leon?"
"I know he'd want this baby. I know he loves me.
But I've spent two years watching him fail to stand up to his mother, fail to defend me in public, fail to make it clear that I'm his wife.
What happens when there's a child involved?
Does he suddenly become someone different?
Or does he keep letting Vera make decisions while he tells himself he's keeping the peace? "
"That's a fair question."
"I don't have an answer to it. That's the problem." I sigh. "I should make an appointment with a doctor soon. Just to confirm everything, make sure things are progressing normally. I'll call tomorrow. I can do that without telling everyone first."
"Take whatever time you need. I'm here if you want to talk."
"I know you are. Thank you, Gia."
"Have you heard from him? Leon?"
"He sent a text last night. Said he got home, found the papers, he's sorry. I haven't replied."
"Are you going to?"
"Eventually. When I know what I want to say."
We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important, the kind of conversation that's really just about staying connected.
After we hang up, I sit in the shade for a while longer, my hand resting on my stomach, watching the afternoon light move across the hills.
***
The next two days blur together in a rhythm of small tasks and quiet hours.
I help my mother in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds and checking the tomato plants for pests.
I sort more almonds with my father, learning the particular sound a good shell makes when you tap it versus one that's hollow inside.
I eat meals at the small wooden table and sleep in the guest room with its simple white coverlet and its view of the garden.
Leon calls once on the second day. I watch his name on the screen until it stops ringing, then read the voicemail notification without listening to it.
He calls again on the third day, and again I don't answer.
He sends one more text: I know you asked for space and I'm trying to respect that. When you're ready to talk, I'm here.
I don't respond to that either. I'm not trying to punish him.
I just don't know what to say yet. Every time I think about talking to him, I think about the broadcast, about Nadia's hand on his arm, about the way he moved on to the next question without correcting the reporter's assumption.
And then I think about the baby, about how everything is about to get more complicated, and the words I might have said dry up in my throat.
On the third evening, I pull out my laptop and open the "Someday" folder for the first time since I left the estate.