Chapter 20 A Life Without Hiding
YSABEL
Four weeks after opening, I still turn the key in the shop door each morning and glance up at my name on the sign.
Today, the morning rush has settled into the comfortable rhythm I've come to love.
Two customers linger at the window tables, finishing their coffee and the last crumbs of their crescents.
Behind the counter, I'm arranging the fresh batch of focaccia that came out of the oven twenty minutes ago, the rosemary still fragrant and glistening with olive oil.
The bell above the door chimes, and Signora Moretti walks in with her grandson in tow. He's maybe four years old, with dark curls and serious eyes that light up when he sees the display case.
"Nonna, look. The moon cookies."
"Those are almond crescents," I tell him, leaning over the counter to catch his eye. "But I like your name better. Moon cookies. Maybe I should change the sign."
He giggles, and Signora Moretti shakes her head fondly. "He's been talking about them all morning. We had to come straight here after his appointment."
"The usual?"
"Please. And one of those moon cookies for Nico. He's been very patient today."
I package the order carefully, then hold up a small, lopsided crescent.
"This one broke on the tray. May he have it?"
Signora Moretti nods, and Nico accepts it with both hands. He studies it before taking a bite, as if the broken moon might need special care.
"Your husband was here yesterday," Signora Moretti says as I hand her the change. "Helped my neighbor carry her grocery bags all the way to her door. She said he wouldn't let her pay him."
"That sounds like Leon."
"She's been telling everyone. The Don himself, carrying bags like a delivery boy." She smiles. "People like that, you know. Seeing him be ordinary."
"He is ordinary. Mostly."
"Maybe. But it's good that people see it." She takes her bag and reaches for Nico's hand. "Same time next week?"
"I'll save you the moon cookies."
The door chimes as they leave, and I turn back to the display case, straightening the plates, checking the levels. We're running low on the olive oil cake. I should start another batch soon, before the afternoon customers arrive.
My apron doesn't cover as much of me as it used to.
I've been tying it more loosely in the past few weeks, and yesterday my mother offered to bring me one with a wider front.
The bump is visible now, unmistakable, a constant reminder of everything that's coming.
Most of the town knows, of course. Word spread quickly after the reception, and faster still after the shop opened.
People offer congratulations, ask how I'm feeling, suggest names for the baby that I smile and nod at without committing to anything.
The baby is ours. That's all that matters. Whatever name we choose, whatever life they live, they'll know they were wanted.
I'm checking the flour in the back when the bell chimes again. This time it's Gia, looking slightly harried.
"I need sugar," she announces. "I promised to bring a cake to my cousin, and apparently an empty jar doesn't refill itself. Can you spare some?"
"How much?"
"Whatever you can manage. I'll pay you back tomorrow."
I find the extra bag I keep in the back and hand it over. "No rush. You've lent me enough over the years."
"That's different. That was friendship."
"This is also friendship."
She grins and tucks the bag under her arm. "How are you feeling? You look good. Tired, but good."
"I am tired. But it's a good tired." I wipe my hands on my apron. "The shop is doing well. Better than I expected."
"Of course it is. Your food is wonderful." She glances around the small space, at the cream-colored walls and the wooden tables and the chalkboard with today's specials. "I still can't believe you actually did it. After all those years of planning."
"Neither can I, sometimes."
"Leon's been good? Helping out?"
"He helps when he can. The estate keeps him busy, but he's here most afternoons. And he always makes time for the important things."
"That's new."
"It is." I smile slightly. "He's been working at it. Every day. It's not perfect, but it's real."
Gia studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Good. You deserve real."
She leaves with her sugar, and I start the next cake. Sunlight reaches across the workbench, catching the flour on my knuckles.
A few months ago, I was setting a table for an anniversary dinner that never happened, watching my husband on television with another woman, feeling invisible in my own home. Now I'm standing in my own shop, making food with my own hands, building something that belongs to me.
The oven is ready. I scrape the last of the batter into the tin and leave the bowl to soak.
Leon arrives around three, after his meetings at the estate have finished for the day.
He comes through the door with the easy familiarity of someone who belongs here, nodding to the customers at the tables, stopping to exchange a word with Signor Benedetti, who's become a regular since the opening. By the time he reaches the counter, I've already poured him a glass of water.
"Busy day?" I ask.
"The usual." He leans against the counter and takes a long drink. "We finished the deliveries meeting without arguing over the same thing three times. I'm calling that progress."
"Only twice?"
"Once and a half. I stopped talking."
"That must have startled them."
He gives me a look over the rim of his glass. "How was your morning?"
"Good. Signora Moretti's grandson called the crescents moon cookies. I'm considering a rebrand."
"Moon cookies." He tries it out. "I like it. Very poetic."
"You would."
He grins, and something warm spreads through my chest. This is what I wanted. This easy rhythm between us, the partnership we've been building day by day. He doesn't try to fix my problems or take over my business. He just shows up, asks questions, helps where he can.
"I need to start another cake," I say. "Can you watch the front for a few minutes?"
"Of course."
I head to the back kitchen, leaving him at the counter. Through the doorway, I can hear him greeting another customer, making small talk, the sound of the register opening and closing. He's not a natural at this the way I am, but he's learned. He's put in the work.
The cake batter comes together easily, the motions so familiar now I could do them in my sleep. Flour, sugar, olive oil, eggs, the zest of an orange. The smell of it fills the small kitchen, mixing with the lingering scent of rosemary from the focaccia.
I think about the alcove behind the tapestry, where we used to meet in secret before we were married.
The dust and the rosemary and the narrow stone bench where we first kissed, where we planned a future we weren't sure we could have.
We were so careful then, so afraid of being caught, of what people would say about the heir and the servant's daughter.
Now I'm standing in my own shop, visibly pregnant with his child, and he's at the counter selling bread to people who call him Leon instead of Don. The secrecy that defined the beginning of our relationship has given way to something open and unashamed.
It's not that I need the town's approval. I learned long ago that seeking approval from people who don't respect you is a losing game.
But there's something powerful about being seen, really seen, as who I am. Not the Don's wife. Not the servant's daughter trying to rise above her station. Just Ysabel, who makes good bread and treats her customers with kindness.
I pour the batter into the pan and slide it into the oven, then return to the front.
Leon is deep in conversation with Signor Benedetti about olive harvests. I catch the tail end of a question about the orchard crew. Signor Benedetti has an opinion, as he usually does, and Leon is listening without looking toward the door.
"The cake's in," I say. "Forty minutes."
"I'll watch the clock." Leon straightens up from his lean against the counter. "Actually, I was thinking. When you close up tonight, would you want to take a walk? It's supposed to be a beautiful evening."
"A walk where?"
"Just around. The square, maybe up toward the hills. We haven't done that in a while."
I consider it. My feet are tired, and there's always cleanup to do after closing. But the thought of walking through the town with Leon, unhurried and unworried, sounds exactly like what I need.
"All right," I say. "A walk."
My mother arrives at four to help with the afternoon rush.
She ties on her apron and takes her place at the packaging station, her movements efficient and practiced. We've done this so many times now that we barely need to speak; she knows what I need before I ask for it.
"Your father says hello," she tells me between customers. "And that Strega knocked over the new feed bin this morning. He's threatening to rename her."
"He's been threatening to rename her for months."
"He means it this time. He called her 'that goat' three times in one sentence."
I laugh, and the customer at the counter smiles. "That's Strega for you. She knows exactly what she's doing."
"She does. Your father just doesn't want to admit that a goat is smarter than him."
The afternoon passes quickly. The shop fills and empties and fills again, the steady rhythm of a successful business. I know most of the customers by name now, know their preferences, their habits, the small details that make them feel seen.
There's the young mother who always orders focaccia for her family's Sunday dinner.
The elderly man who comes in every afternoon for a single crescent and a chance to sit somewhere warm.
The group of teenagers who pool their money for a shared slice of cake after school.
The teenagers have learned to bring their own extra forks.
Today one of them wipes their table before they leave, waving away my thanks with a shy shrug.
By six o'clock, the rush has slowed to a trickle. My mother starts the cleanup while I handle the last few customers, and Leon emerges from the back where he's been doing inventory.