10. Lorenzo
— ? —
Lorenzo
The letter is still in my hand when I reach the stables.
I read it upstairs and again on the steps, as though the words might change once I saw her car. You chose her. I want a divorce. I had gone to our room to apologize, to tell her I would call the supplier tomorrow. Her suitcase was gone. The note was on my pillow.
The stable is warm and dim, smelling of hay and horse and leather. One of the grooms is finishing with a bay gelding near the entrance, brushing down the animal after what looks like an evening exercise session. The horse is still wearing its bridle, the saddle resting on the rail beside them.
“Don Lorenzo.” The groom straightens when he sees me, his brush pausing mid-stroke. “Is something wrong?”
“I need the horse.” I push the letter into my jacket pocket and reach for the saddle. “Now.”
He helps me settle the saddle and tighten the girth, glancing at my face. My hands won’t work quickly enough. Another car would have to follow the same winding drive. The field track cuts past the olive grove and the chapel. I might reach the road before she does.
What will you say when you get there?
I don’t know. I just need her to stop long enough to look at me. Even now, I want another chance before I’ve worked out what to do with it.
I swing into the saddle and gather the reins.
The gelding shifts beneath me, sensing my urgency, and I have to force myself to ease my grip before I communicate my panic to him.
He’s a good horse, steady and sure-footed.
He deserves better than to be run ragged because his rider can’t control himself.
“Don Lorenzo.” The groom puts his hand on the bridle before I can move. “The north field has loose stones near the boundary. If you’re taking the shortcut, watch the slope.”
I nod. He steps clear, and we leave the yard. Beyond the olive trees, her car is already out of sight.
I push the horse into a canter, angling toward the gap in the fence that leads to the north field. I keep to the worn field track, away from the rough pasture on either side. The gelding lengthens his stride as we reach level ground, and I look toward the next opening between the trees.
Why couldn’t you tell her?
The question pounds through my head in time with the hoofbeats.
I had the investigators’ report. I knew the contamination was deliberate, knew her presentation had nothing to do with it.
I could have shown her the findings yesterday instead of leaving her to ask the sommelier for them.
I could have stood beside her in front of the valley and said the words she needed to hear.
The north field opens up before me, and I push the gelding faster. We’re gaining ground now, cutting across the corner while the drive curves around the olive grove. If I can reach the old vineyard before she passes, she might see me and stop long enough to hear me.
The slope rises ahead, and I remember the groom’s warning about loose stones. I slow the horse to a walk, letting him pick his way through the rougher ground. I can hear an engine beyond the trees and can’t tell whether it’s hers. I want to hurry him, but the track narrows here.
From the crest of the slope, I can see the drive below. And there, just rounding the bend past the chapel, is the car.
She takes the bend without hurrying, then follows the lane toward the vineyard. Somehow that is worse than watching her race away. I have been telling myself this is anger that will pass; she looks as though she knows where she is going.
I keep the horse at a walk down the gravel slope. Her car disappears behind the trees, then reappears beyond the low vineyard wall, its taillights red in the gathering dusk.
I reach the wall and lift a hand from the reins.
“Chiara!” My voice comes out ragged. I draw breath and call again. “Chiara, wait!”
The car keeps moving. I can’t tell whether she hears me.
I urge the gelding along the firmer track beside the wall. Near the next bend, the car seems to slow. My breath catches. I watch for her to pull over, already imagining myself beside her window.
She keeps going. I can’t tell whether she saw me or was only taking the turn.
Then the drive straightens.
Her taillights pull away. I search for the opening where the track joins the lane, but she reaches the gate before I do. I watch her turn onto the public road.
I pull up at the gate, my chest heaving, my eyes fixed on the diminishing red lights until they disappear around a curve and are gone.
She’s gone.
I sit there for a long moment, the horse breathing hard beneath me, the evening settling into darkness around us. The letter presses against my ribs inside my jacket. I had asked her for time. She had used it to pack.
You chose her.
I did. I ordered the investigators to leave Livia alone because I couldn’t bear to question my own judgment. Then Chiara brought me evidence, and I still defended my friend. I called it fairness.
She had stood on the other side of my desk, waiting for me to read what she’d brought. I can see her hand beside the receipt. How long had she spent gathering everything, believing this time I would listen?
The gelding shifts beneath me, reminding me that we can’t stand here all night.
I turn him back toward the estate, moving slowly now, giving him time to cool down after the hard run.
The fields stretch out around us, peaceful and indifferent, the same land I’ve known my whole life.
It all looks different without her in it.
By the time I reach the stables, the groom is waiting with a blanket and a bucket of water. He takes the reins without comment, his face carefully neutral, and I wonder how much he saw. How much the whole estate will know by morning.
“Take care of him.” I dismount and keep a hand on the gelding’s neck while the groom loosens the girth. “He deserves better than I gave him tonight.”
The groom nods, leading the horse away, and I’m left standing in the stable yard with nothing but the crumpled letter in my pocket and the knowledge that I drove my wife away.
On the walk back, I pass the terrace where my mother told me to go and speak to Chiara yesterday. She had been by the fountain with Rosalia. I took a distributor’s call and watched her leave. I had been close enough to call her name then, without needing a horse or a shortcut.
The main house is quiet when I enter, most of the staff having finished their evening duties. I make my way toward the back stairs, wanting to avoid anyone who might ask questions I can’t answer. But as I pass the servants’ corridor, a door opens and Rosalia steps out.
She stops when she sees me, her face going carefully blank. There is none of the surprise I expected. Chiara must have told her she was leaving.
“Don Lorenzo.” She stays in the doorway, keeping it open behind her rather than coming to meet me. “Can I help you with something?”
“She’s gone.” I hear myself telling her something she plainly knows, but I can’t seem to begin anywhere else. “I tried to catch her, but she’s gone.”
Rosalia doesn’t soften. If anything, her expression becomes more guarded. “Yes. She is.”
“Do you know where she’s going?” I look past her at the empty corridor, as though Chiara might somehow have come back by another entrance. “Is she safe? Is someone expecting her?”
Rosalia hesitates, her hand tightening on the door.
“She has somewhere to go.” Rosalia takes her phone from her apron pocket but keeps the screen turned toward herself. “Someone is expecting her. That’s all I can tell you without her permission.”
“I need to talk to her.” I take a step toward Rosalia, then stop when I see her stiffen. “Please. I need to explain.”
“With respect, Don Lorenzo.” Rosalia steps back, and I realize how close I’ve come. “She tried to speak to you before she left.”
I step away from the doorway. There is no answer I can give her that Chiara hasn’t already heard.
“Will you tell me when she arrives safely?” It’s less than I want to ask, but it’s all I have the right to ask. “Just that she’s safe. Nothing else.”
Rosalia considers this for a moment, then nods. “If she contacts me and gives permission, I’ll let you know she arrived.”
“Thank you.” I look down at the phone she is still holding. “I know you were trying to help her. With the testimony. With everything.”
“I told you the truth, Don Lorenzo.” She puts her phone away. “I heard what I heard.”
She excuses herself and walks down the corridor. I wait until she’s gone before going upstairs.
Upstairs, our bedroom is dark. I switch on the lamp beside the bed and see her slippers where she left them, one partly beneath the frame. I almost move it beside the other before stopping. Making the room tidy won’t make it less empty.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, on her side, and pull the letter from my pocket. The paper is creased from being pushed into my pocket. I smooth it out and read it again, though I already know what it says.
My phone sits on the nightstand. I could beg her to turn around. Hearing her voice would make this room less unbearable, even if she only told me no.
I pick up the phone anyway, pull up her contact, stare at the screen.
My thumb hovers over the call button. I want to tell her I love her, but she needs more than that.
I owe her the truth I’ve been too cowardly to admit: that I didn’t think she had done it even before the laboratory findings came back, and I still left her defending herself alone.
I could make another promise about tomorrow. That is the first answer that comes to me, and I hate recognizing it. She asked me to let her go upstairs because she didn’t want to talk anymore. I have already chased her across the estate. I can leave her this much space tonight.
I put the phone down without calling.
I leave the sound turned up in case Rosalia calls. Somewhere on a dark road, Chiara is driving toward a room I’ve never seen. I don’t know whether she’ll sleep or lie awake wishing she hadn’t married me.