2. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
A week after that rooftop, our car turns onto the gravel drive that leads to Villa Belmare, and I get my first real look at the place that’s supposed to become home.
The photographs didn’t lie, exactly. The house rises from the clifftop exactly as promised.
Cream stone and terracotta tiles, climbing bougainvillea in violent pink, a series of terraces stepping down toward the water.
It’s beautiful in the particular way old money is beautiful, confident and unhurried, like it knows it doesn’t have to impress anyone.
Summer presses her face to the glass beside me. “Is that where we’re going to live?”
“That’s it.” I reach over and work my fingers through her hair, still tangled from the overnight flight and the drive from the airport.
She’s been a trooper through all of it. The connection, the winding coastal road, the unfamiliar food at the airport café she picked at and then abandoned.
Four years old and she handled it better than I did.
“It’s big.” She sounds uncertain, and I understand the feeling. Our house in Los Angeles is comfortable, but it’s nothing like this. This is a place built to hold generations.
“It is big.” I lean across her to get a better look, unwilling to let her see how much the place unsettles me. “But we’ll figure it out together. You and me and Daddy.”
Valentin sits in the front passenger seat, still facing the house.
He hasn’t said much since we landed. Quiet in the way he gets when he’s steeling himself for something difficult. I’ve watched the tension climb his shoulders with every mile, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the house like it might demand something from him he’s not sure he can give.
The driver stops the car and opens his door. October air comes in from the gardens, and beneath the sound of the idling engine I hear waves breaking below the cliffs.
Valentin is out of the car before I can say anything, standing in the gravel, looking up at the facade. This is where he grew up. This is where his father lived.
And now the weight of it belongs to him, whether he wanted it or not.
I unbuckle Summer and help her out, holding her hand as we cross the gravel toward the front steps. Her stuffed rabbit dangles from her other hand, its ears dragging in the dust.
The front door opens before we reach it.
Costanza descends the steps in elegant black, silver hair swept back, posture perfect.
We’ve met before, but she’s always felt like someone I was being introduced to rather than someone I actually know.
Valentin’s mother moves through the world like she expects it to arrange itself around her, and in my limited experience, it usually does.
“Valentin.” She takes his face in her hands and pulls him down to kiss both his cheeks, her voice cracking on his name. “My boy. You’re home.”
“Mama.” He holds her for a long moment, and I hang back with Summer, giving them space. Whatever else is complicated about Costanza, she just lost her husband. She’s entitled to this.
When she finally releases him, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, she turns to look at me. The warmth drains from her expression so quickly I almost miss the transition.
“And the actress,” she says. Not Solenne. Not my daughter-in-law.
I keep my voice pleasant and extend my free hand. “Solenne. Your daughter-in-law. It’s good to see you again, Donna Costanza, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
She takes my hand briefly, her grip barely there, and releases it without acknowledgment. Her eyes have already moved to Summer. “Look how tall you’ve gotten since we last spoke on the video call. Come here, child. Let me see you properly.”
Summer glances up at me, uncertain, and I give her a small nod. She approaches her grandmother slowly, rabbit clutched to her chest, and submits to having her chin tilted up.
“She has his eyes,” Costanza says, and for a moment her voice goes soft. “Emanuele’s eyes.” She releases Summer and straightens, the moment of tenderness passing. “She’s exhausted. Children shouldn’t travel so far without proper rest.”
Movement in the doorway catches my attention. An older woman, gray-haired and comfortable-looking, hovering just inside. When our eyes meet, something in her face shifts into warmth.
“Nonna Delfina.” Valentin leaves the steps to embrace her. “You should have come out with Mama.”
“And left the biscotti to burn?” She pats his cheek. “You know better than that. I’ve been running this kitchen since before you were born.” Her eyes move past him to me. “Signora Caruso. Welcome to Villa Belmare. I helped your husband survive his childhood. I’m told I make excellent biscotti.”
I like her immediately. “Summer would be very interested in testing that claim.”
“Then she and I will get along perfectly.” Delfina steps aside to let us enter, then leads us through the foyer to an open door farther down the hall. “The kitchen is just through here, if the little one would like to see. You can watch her from the doorway while you catch your breath.”
I appreciate that she hasn’t simply taken Summer away and expected me to follow. I walk Summer to the kitchen entrance and watch her climb onto a stool at the worn wooden table where Delfina is already setting out a plate of cookies.
Behind me, Costanza has already reclaimed Valentin’s arm. “Your uncles have been waiting for you. They want to speak before tomorrow’s appointments…”
“Mama.” His voice is gentle but strained. “We just arrived.”
“Of course.” Costanza steers him toward the open sitting-room door, where I can hear men talking. “But they’ve come all this way. Just a few minutes, to let them know you’re here.”
I watch him waver. He’s exhausted. I know because I am, but he can’t say no. Not to her. Not today, with his father barely a month in the ground.
“Come up when you’re done,” I say, before he can ask permission to abandon me. “I’ll need help figuring out where Summer’s things go.”
He looks at me with something like gratitude and something like guilt, and crosses back to where I’m standing. “I will,” he tells me, accepting the overnight bag I pass him. Then Costanza leads him into the sitting room, and I return to the foyer for the rest of our luggage.
The driver has begun unloading bags, stacking them near the door.
I pick up my carry-on and Summer’s small suitcase.
Opposite the staircase, a gallery of family photographs catches my attention.
Valentin appears at different ages, sometimes beside his father, sometimes surrounded by relatives.
Near the center, a little brass light illuminates our wedding photograph in a gilt frame.
I stop with the suitcase still in my hand. We’re laughing in the picture, his attention entirely on me. I hadn’t expected to find us here among all those formal portraits, and I’m annoyed with myself for the relief. I’m his wife. Why shouldn’t our wedding be on the wall?
From the kitchen, Summer launches into a detailed assessment of the biscotti. I leave the bags at the foot of the stairs and go to join her.
“…and this one is crunchier than the ones at home,” Summer is telling Delfina, holding up a half-eaten biscuit for inspection.
“That’s the almonds.” Delfina turns the biscuit in Summer’s hand to show her the pale sliver inside. “We toast them first. Do you like it?”
Summer considers this with four-year-old gravity. “I need another one.”
Delfina laughs and slides the plate closer. “A girl who knows what she wants. I approve.”
I lean against the doorframe and let myself breathe for the first time since we landed.
The kitchen is warm and bright, copper pots gleaming, herbs drying in bundles near the window.
Through the glass I can see the garden Valentin mentioned once - orderly rows of vegetables, a stone path leading toward what looks like a grove of lemon trees.
“Your room is upstairs,” Delfina says, catching my eye. “The master suite, with the terrace. I’ve put the little one in the room just beside it - close enough that she can find you in the night if she needs to.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “Is there anything I should know? About the house, or…”
“You’ll learn it as you go.” Her voice is kind but practical. “The house has its rhythms. So does the family. Give yourself time.”
I want to ask what that means, but Summer is tugging at my hand, wanting to show me the garden, and the moment passes.
***
By dinner, I’ve changed into a navy dress and found Summer a clean one among the bags I hauled upstairs myself. We enter a dining room longer than our entire living room in Los Angeles.
A table that could seat twenty dominates the space, though tonight there are only place cards for eight: Valentin, me, Summer, Costanza, and four relatives. Two of Valentin’s uncles and their wives, whose names I learn and hold carefully because I refuse to be the outsider who can’t keep track.
Costanza sits at the head of the table. I notice this immediately, the way I notice that my place card is at the far end, separated from Valentin by the entire length of polished wood. He’s to his mother’s right, the position of honor, and Summer’s card is across from mine.
I pick up Summer’s place card and her small chair, moving both to the empty space directly beside my own seat rather than across the table. If I’m going to be exiled to the far end, at least my daughter will be within arm’s reach.
“The seating was arranged,” Costanza says, her tone pleasant. “For the child’s comfort.”
“This is more comfortable.” I settle Summer into the chair and take my own seat. “She’ll need help with her food.”
Costanza’s smile doesn’t waver, but something behind her eyes calculates and files away. “Of course.”
The first course arrives: branzino, delicate and perfectly prepared, with capers and lemon butter. The staff moves silently, pouring wine, arranging plates, and I watch Valentin at the far end of the table, fielding questions from his uncles about accounts and appointments.