11. Chiara #2
“You are my family.” He looks at me again. “And I reassured her instead of defending you.”
“I was crying too, Lorenzo. You just couldn’t see me.”
His hand lifts, then falls before he reaches for me.
“I know that now,” he says. “And I won’t ask you to make what I said sound better because I regret it.”
“You’re right.” I take a step back, needing distance. “You were a coward. You let me suffer alone while you played protector to the woman who was destroying me. And now you want me to believe that you always knew I was innocent? That’s supposed to make it better?”
“No.” He shakes his head, and I see the pain in his face, real and raw.
“It makes it worse. I know that. If I had genuinely doubted you, at least that would be an explanation. But I didn’t doubt you.
I just couldn’t say it. I couldn’t choose you out loud, where anyone could hear.
I couldn’t be the husband you needed me to be. ”
“Why not?” The question tears out of me, carrying all the hurt and rage of the past week. “What is so hard about standing beside your wife and saying you believe her? What is so impossible about choosing me over a woman who has been trying to destroy me since the day I arrived?”
Lorenzo is quiet for a long moment. The rain is falling harder now, drumming on the terracotta roof, creating a curtain of water at the edge of the terrace. When he speaks again, his voice is rough.
“My father taught me that love was something you provided, not something you spoke.” He looks away from me, out at the rain-soaked groves.
“I rarely heard him tell my mother he loved her. I saw him managing the estate, providing for her, handling problems quietly. I assumed that was enough. I thought keeping trouble away from the house mattered more than anything we said inside it.”
“I didn’t need you to fix things.” I can hear my voice cracking, and I hate it. “I needed you to believe me. Out loud. In front of other people. I needed you to choose me, Lorenzo, not manage me.”
“I know.” He turns back to face me, and he has to wipe his cheek before he can finish.
We’re both still sheltered under the roof.
I can’t pretend that’s rain. “I know that now. I should have known it then. I was so caught up in trying to handle everything quietly, the way my father would have, that I never questioned what I was doing. My mother deserved more than silence too. I made my own choices, Chiara. You’re my partner, and I didn’t treat you like one. ”
“You gave her the reassurance I was asking for.” I’m crying too now, though I promised myself I wouldn’t. “I had to listen from the doorway to hear you say those words at all.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.” He takes another step toward me, close enough now that I could touch him if I wanted to.
“I’m not asking you to come home. I’m just asking you to know, finally, that I believe you.
That I’ve always believed you. That my failure to say it was about my own fear, not about any doubt in you. ”
“Words.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand, angry at myself for crying. “These are just words, Lorenzo. You could have said them a week ago. You could have said them in your study when I was begging you to believe me. Why should I trust them now?”
“You shouldn’t.” He moves back, leaving the space he closed between us. “I haven’t earned your trust. I haven’t earned anything. I just needed you to know the truth, even if it doesn’t change anything.”
The rain comes down in sheets beyond the terrace. I have the words I wanted from him, and I still can’t imagine getting back into his car. How would I sit beside him on that drive, knowing he could have spared me so much of this?
“You should go.” I force the words out past the tightness in my throat. “I’ve heard what you came to say. Now leave.”
“All right.” He turns toward the steps leading down from the terrace. I move back so he can pass without brushing against me.
Then he stops at the edge of the covered area, looking out at the rain.
“I’ll wait until it eases.” He gestures toward the small parcel of dormant vines barely visible through the downpour. “Just at the edge of the vineyard. Then I’ll go.”
“Lorenzo.” I stare at him in disbelief. “It’s pouring. Go to your car.”
“I know where it is.” His hand closes on the wet railing. “Just a few minutes, Chiara.”
He walks down the steps and into the rain before I can argue further.
Within seconds his jacket is dark with water, his hair plastered to his head, but he doesn’t stop.
He just keeps walking until he reaches the edge of the vineyard, where he stops and stands with his back to me, looking out at the bare vines.
What is he doing?
I watch him from the shelter of the terrace, my arms wrapped around myself, my mind spinning.
He’s standing in a storm because I told him to leave and he couldn’t quite make himself walk to the car.
What am I supposed to do with this? I asked him to leave, and now I have to watch him get soaked or turn my back on him.
I could ask Rosalia to tell him to go. She would do it without making me explain. But I want Lorenzo to hear this from me.
I take my coat from the hook by the kitchen door, push my arms into the sleeves, and button it before walking out into the storm.
The rain hits my face and runs inside my cuffs, but I keep walking. Across the terrace, down the steps, through the mud that’s already forming in the paths between the trees, until I’m standing behind Lorenzo with rain streaming down both our faces.
“This is manipulative.” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the storm. “Standing out here getting wet doesn’t fix what you did.”
He turns to face me, and I see something shift in his expression when he registers the anger in mine. “You’re right.” He looks past me at the path I’ve just taken through the rain. “I’ve made you come out here to ask me twice. I’m sorry. I’m going.”
He starts walking toward the path that leads around the house to where the cars are parked.
“Lorenzo.” He stops at the fork in the path but doesn’t turn around. Rain runs down the back of his neck, disappearing into his soaked collar.
I don’t know why I stopped him. I told him to go. He’s going. This is what I wanted.