15. Chiara #3
“That’s fair.” He doesn’t push for more. He just sits with me, eating the same food, breathing the same air, present in a way he wasn’t for so long.
A woman I don’t recognize approaches the table, hesitates, then continues past without speaking. I watch her go, wondering if she had something to say and lost her nerve, or if she was just curious about the spectacle we’ve become.
“Livia is here.” Beyond the woman walking past us, I see her near the farthest wine table. She holds a glass without drinking, her eyes fixed on our end of the gathering. “She’s watching us.”
“I saw her arrive.” Lorenzo catches the eye of an estate employee standing near the canopy entrance, then turns back to me. “They know to keep her away from you.”
“She looks calm.” I think about Livia’s expression, the careful neutrality that could mean anything. “Too calm, for someone whose world should be falling apart.”
“She’s good at looking calm.” Lorenzo sets down his fork. “It doesn’t mean she’s not worried. The investigation is moving forward. Ferro has questions she hasn’t answered yet.”
I want to believe that. I want to believe that Livia’s composure is a mask, that underneath she’s scrambling to figure out how to escape the consequences of what she did. But something about the way she watched us today unsettles me. Like she’s waiting for something. Planning something.
“I should head back to the cottage before it gets too dark.” I push my plate away, the food finished, the conversation reaching a natural pause. “I’ve done enough for one day.”
“Of course.” Lorenzo stands when I do, not reaching for me, not trying to extend the moment beyond what I’m offering. “Thank you for coming today. For being here.”
“I came for myself.” I gather my coat from where I draped it over the back of my chair. “But I’m glad you were here too.”
We walk back toward the church car park, passing the last of the food tables on our way out. Ortensia catches my eye as we pass and gives me a small nod, a gesture of acknowledgment that feels more significant than the elaborate courtesies I’ve received from everyone else.
The sun is already low, casting long shadows across the square. The feast will continue for hours yet, families lingering over wine and conversation, but I’ve done what I came to do. I’ve shown my face. I’ve asked for more than apologies.
I’ve stood beside my husband while he finally said the words I needed to hear.
It’s enough for one day.
***
The drive back to the cottage is quiet, the winter sun already setting by the time I pull through the gates.
I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical tiredness. The confrontation at the feast, the apologies, Lorenzo’s public declaration, all of it has left me feeling wrung out and uncertain. Something shifted today. I’m just not sure yet what it means.
I call Rosalia once I’m inside. She finished work an hour ago, and I can hear a television in the background before she turns it down.
“He said it in front of everyone,” I tell her. “I was answering one of the women from the shop, and he came and stood beside me.”
“Good.” She leaves room for me to continue instead of asking whether this means I’ve forgiven him.
I tell her about the apologies and what I asked the women to do with them. When we’ve finished talking, I warm my supper and eat it at the kitchen table. I can be glad about what happened without deciding anything else tonight.
Lucia knocks as I’m putting the plate in the sink. She has an envelope in her hand.
“This was delivered at the farmhouse while you were out. Marked from Baglio. I kept it here rather than let anyone come over to your door.”
“Thank you.”
I take it from her, expecting another page for the greenhouse plans. Lorenzo does seem to have found words more easily since he started putting them on paper.
I make my way upstairs, curious despite myself. A note from Lorenzo seems odd when he could have just spoken to me at the feast. But maybe he wanted to say something more private than what the public setting allowed.
I set my bag on the bedroom desk and turn the envelope over. Plain white paper, my name on the front. I recognize the handwriting immediately: the same careful script that appeared on the greenhouse plans, the same hand that’s been taking notes in the garden for the past week.
I open the envelope and read the single sheet inside.
“Meet me at the lake tomorrow at sunset. I have something to show you. - L.”
I read it twice.
The lake, where he brought strawberries because he’d remembered a story about Lyon. I had been so happy that evening. I run my thumb over his initial, wondering what he wants to show me.
I take out my phone and tell Rosalia I’ll be at the Baglio lake tomorrow at sunset, meeting Lorenzo.
She replies that she’ll be finishing her shift around then. I hope you have a lovely evening, signora. Please let me know when you arrive and when you’re safely back. I tell her I will.
I glance at the greenhouse plans on my desk.
The invitation doesn’t ask me to forgive him or come home. It asks me to see something, and after today I want to know what he has found.
I put the note beside my car keys.