2. Solenne #2
He glances my way once, twice, and I see the furrow in his brow when he registers the distance between us. But he doesn’t say anything. The conversation has already moved on, rapid Italian I can mostly follow, discussions of the estate and the lawyers and the endless details of succession.
During a lull, when Costanza is describing the memorial luncheon to one of the aunts, I see an opening.
“I could help coordinate with the florist,” I say, pitching my voice to carry. “I’ve worked with event designers before. Different scale, obviously, but I know how to communicate a vision.”
Costanza’s attention shifts to me with the precision of a camera finding focus. “How thoughtful. But the florist has worked with this family for three generations. She knows exactly what we need.”
“I’m sure she does. I just meant…” I start to explain that I could take some of the work off her hands, but Costanza continues over me.
“Perhaps when you’ve learned our ways.” The words land with the weight of a door closing. “These things require a certain understanding of the families, the histories. The luncheon is in four days. There’s hardly time to bring someone new up to speed.”
I feel the attention of the table on me. The uncles pausing mid-conversation, the aunts watching with careful neutrality, Summer picking the capers out of her fish.
“I’ll learn faster if I’m included.” I wait for an answer, refusing to withdraw the offer just because everyone is watching.
Costanza’s smile is gracious and utterly dismissive. “We’ll find something appropriate for you. Eventually.”
One of the aunts asks about the flowers. Apparently the subject is perfectly welcome as long as I’m not the one discussing it. At the far end, Valentin is already deep in discussion with his uncle about some property matter, and he doesn’t look up. Doesn’t register the exchange at all.
I cut a piece of fish and eat it without tasting anything.
The meal continues. More courses arrive and depart - the pasta, a lamb dish with rosemary, vegetables roasted with olive oil and garlic.
Summer eats what she can and yawns through the rest, and I don’t force her because I’m barely managing myself.
At some point the conversation turns to the memorial luncheon guest list.
“The Solanos have confirmed, of course,” Costanza is saying. “Ginevra will be there. She’s been such a comfort these past weeks. She and Valentin were quite close when they were young.”
“The Solanos and our family have been friends for generations,” Valentin says, glancing briefly in my direction. “Ginevra and I grew up around the same dinner tables.”
“Such a lovely girl.” Costanza’s voice is warm with approval. “It will be good to have her here. Familiar faces during difficult times.”
I don’t miss the way she says it. Familiar faces, as if I’m something unfamiliar, something that requires translation. I wait for Valentin to make room for me in the conversation. His uncle addresses him again, and he turns away.
By the time dessert is served, Summer is half-asleep in her chair, head drooping toward her plate. I rise before she can slump into it. “I should get her to bed.”
“Of course.” Costanza waves a hand. “Delfina can show you to her room.”
“I know where it is.” I gather Summer into my arms. She’s heavy with exhaustion, boneless the way sleeping children get and her rabbit nearly slips from her grip. Delfina appears beside me and catches it, tucking it against Summer’s chest.
“I’ll get the doors,” she says quietly, and walks ahead of me up the stairs.
Summer’s room is small but cheerful, with a view of the garden and a bed piled with pillows.
I change her into pajamas while she’s still mostly asleep, a skill I’ve perfected over four years of late flights and disrupted schedules, and settle her under the covers with her rabbit tucked in beside her.
“Mama?” Summer finds my sleeve as I draw the blanket up, holding on until I sit beside her.
“I’m here.” I smooth her hair back from her forehead. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be right next door if you need me.”
She’s out before I finish the sentence, her breathing evening into the deep rhythm of genuine sleep.
Delfina is waiting in the doorway. “Your room is just through there,” she says, nodding toward the connecting door. “The master suite. I’ve left fresh towels.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “For everything today. The biscotti, and…”
“She is a good child.” Delfina retrieves Summer’s discarded shoe from under the bed and sets it beside its partner. “Strong, I think. Like her mother.”
There’s something in her voice that feels like an offering, an alliance being tentatively extended. I want to take it, but I’m too tired to know what it means.
“Goodnight, Signora,” she says, and slips away before I can respond.
***
The master bedroom is what I expected. High ceilings, heavy drapes, furniture that looks like it’s been here for a century or more.
French doors open onto a terrace, and beyond it the sea stretches to the horizon, silver under the rising moon.
I can hear the waves clearly now, the steady sound that seemed so appealing when Valentin described it in Los Angeles.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, still in my dinner dress, when he finally comes in. He looks exhausted, stripped of the careful composure he wore at the table, and I watch him move through the room. Jacket off, tie loosened, the ritual of becoming human again after hours of performance.
“I’m sorry,” he says, before I can speak. “I meant to come up sooner. My uncle wanted to talk before the meeting tomorrow…”
“I got the bags upstairs.” I push the suitcase farther across the bed to make room for him. “You said you’d help.”
He sits beside me on the bed. “How was the rest of dinner?”
“Your mother seated me at the opposite end of the table from you. She dismissed my offer to help with the luncheon before I finished the sentence. She made sure I knew how lovely Ginevra Solano is.” I keep my voice flat, factual. “It was wonderful.”
Valentin runs a hand through his hair. “The seating was probably just - she’s used to arranging things a certain way. It’s habit.”
“And calling me ‘the actress’ when I arrived? Is that habit too?” I thought he might have missed it at the door. Now I need to know whether he considers it acceptable.
He flinches slightly. “She’s grieving, Solenne. My father just…” He stops, swallows, tries again. “She’s not herself right now.”
“Grief doesn’t make a stranger of your son’s wife.” I turn to face him fully, making him meet my eyes. “I’ve met her before. She knows my name. She chose not to use it.”
“I’ll talk to her.” He starts to stand, then stays seated when I don’t move.