9. Chiara #3
I sit at the small desk in the corner of our bedroom with a blank sheet of paper in front of me.
My suitcase waits by the door, zipped and ready.
My bag holds my phone, the evidence folder and my investigation notebook.
Everything I need to start over, or at least to survive the next few days while I figure out what starting over actually looks like.
I put the date at the top of the page out of habit, then stop. This isn’t a reminder I can leave beside his keys and ask whether he saw it at breakfast.
I could fill the sheet with everything I couldn’t make him hear downstairs. He would read it alone, without the papers between us. Would that make him understand? The question keeps me at the desk longer than I want to admit.
I think about the evening in the grape vat, how he steadied me and stayed while the light faded. I liked him so much that night. I want to tell him that, too, which is how I know I need to keep this short.
I write two sentences.
You chose her. I want a divorce.
I fold the paper once and write his name on the outside.
Then I walk to his side of the bed and set it on his pillow, where he’ll find it when he comes looking for me.
If he comes looking. The thought stings more than it should, given that I’m the one leaving, but I push it down and turn away from the bed.
I call the number Rosalia sent. Lucia has one cottage available, a kitchen and sitting room downstairs with a bedroom above. I book a week to begin with and arrange to pay from my own account.
“Will you be arriving late?” she asks.
“Possibly. I need to pack, and I may stop on the way.”
“Send me a message when you’re close. I’ll meet you with the key.”
I thank her and save the directions she sends. Near Palermo, I can have space to think without being beyond reach of the people who need to answer my questions about the wine. I’m leaving the marriage. I still want my name cleared.
I set the phone in my bag and check the desk drawer for my passport. It’s already packed. I check my bag anyway, touch the cover, then close it. I need to stop finding small reasons to stay in this room.
I lift the suitcase over the threshold. The wheel catches on the edge of the rug, and I tug it free, grateful that no one is there to watch this clumsy part of leaving.
The hallway is quiet as I make my way toward the stairs. I pass the blue sitting room where I spent last night on the settee, unable to sleep in a bed my husband might or might not join.
The house has the heavy stillness of early evening, staff finishing their duties, the day winding down into routines I won’t be part of anymore.
Downstairs, I turn away from the corridor that leads to Lorenzo’s study. I can’t hear whether he’s still in there. My hand tightens around the suitcase handle as I pass, but I keep going toward the front door.
The main entrance opens onto the courtyard, and the evening air hits my face with the smell of dust and distant citrus.
One of the household cars is parked near the garage, the one I’ve used before for errands in the village. The keys are in the side pocket of my bag, where I put them when I packed.
I load my suitcase into the back and slide into the driver’s seat. The mirrors need adjusting for my height, a small reminder that I’m not the only person who drives this car. There’s enough fuel for the drive. I take a breath, settle my hands on the wheel, and pull out my phone one more time.
I send Rosalia the cottage address. I’m leaving now. I’ll call when I arrive.
Her reply comes before I start the car. Take care of yourself, signora. Please keep in touch.
I blink back tears and type, I will. Thank you for everything.
Then I put the phone in my bag where I won’t be tempted to check it while driving.
The engine catches, and I pull away from the garage. My hands are trembling against the wheel. I tighten my grip and follow the drive across the courtyard.
Movement catches in the mirror.
Lorenzo is on the steps, my letter open in his hand.
“Chiara!”
His shout reaches me through the window I’ve left slightly open. I look back before I can stop myself.
He’s coming down the steps now, fast.
“Chiara, wait!”
My foot lifts from the accelerator.
For one terrible second, I want to stop. Let him reach the car. Let him pull open the door and tell me I’ve misunderstood, that he believes me, that I don’t have to go.
But I asked him for those words upstairs.
I shouldn’t have to leave to hear them.
Tears spill down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my sleeve and turn my eyes back to the road.
Behind me, he changes direction, running around the side of the house toward the stables. The drive curves around the vineyard before reaching the gate. On horseback, he could cut across the fields.
He’s going to try to catch me.
“Chiara!”
His voice breaks on my name. A sob catches in my throat, and I have to swallow before I can draw another breath.
“Please,” I whisper, though he can’t hear me.
I don’t know whether I’m asking him to come after me or let me go.
The courtyard disappears around the bend.
I keep the car moving, though every part of me wants to stop.