2. Solenne #3
“Will you?” He’s been offering explanations for her since he came through the door. I need more than another one.
His jaw tightens. “What do you want me to say? She’s my mother. She just lost her husband. I can’t…” He breaks off, frustration and grief tangling in his voice. “I know today wasn’t what you expected. I know I left you alone longer than I meant to. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not asking you to choose sides.” I move the suitcase off the bed so there’s nothing between us. “I’m asking you to see what happened. The seating, the way she cut me off, the fact that you were twenty feet away and didn’t notice any of it.”
He looks toward the open suitcase and the clothes I haven’t finished putting away. “You’re right,” he says finally. “I should have been paying attention. Tomorrow we’ll sit together at breakfast. I’ll make sure of it.”
It’s a small thing. One meal. But it’s something.
“Okay. Tomorrow.” I want a place beside him at the table. I wish I hadn’t needed to ask for one.
He takes off his shoes and sets them beneath the chair instead of heading back toward the door. For the first time all day, there doesn’t seem to be anyone waiting to take him away.
“I missed you.” I turn toward him on the bed. We’ve spent most of the journey within reach of each other, but I’ve hardly had a conversation with him.
“I missed you too.” He settles back against the pillows, making room for me beside him. “I’m sorry about today. About all of it.”
“Then stay a while.” I slip the loosened tie from his collar and lay it aside. “I want you here with me.”
He kisses me then, and I let myself sink into it - the familiar taste of him, the warmth of his hands, the way my body knows his after four years of practice.
We move together slowly, undressing each other in the half-dark, and when he pulls me close I stop thinking about seating charts and dismissive comments and all the ways this day went wrong.
After, we lie tangled together, the windows open to the sea. His breathing evens out within minutes - the deep rhythm of genuine sleep - and I’m glad. He needs it. We both do.
But sleep doesn’t come for me.
I lie there in the dark and listen to the waves and think about the way Costanza looked at me across that long table. Like I was a problem she hadn’t anticipated. Like she was recalculating something.
I can learn the customs. I can figure out the families and the protocols and the thousand small social rules that govern this world. I’ve done harder things than navigate a suspicious mother-in-law. But I need Valentin’s help, and right now I’m not sure he understands how much.
I turn onto my side, away from the terrace. Eventually, I sleep.
***
Morning light filters through the curtains, gray and soft. Valentin’s side of the bed is empty.
A note on his pillow says early meeting, find you for lunch. I read it again, looking for some acknowledgment of the breakfast he promised me last night.
There isn’t one.
Then I push myself up and start the process of becoming a person again. Shower, clothes, makeup to hide the shadows under my eyes. The face in the mirror looks tired but present, and that’s going to have to be enough.
Summer is already awake when I check on her, playing some game with her rabbit that involves elaborate negotiations about breakfast. I help her into a fresh dress and brush her hair, listening to her chatter about the garden and the biscotti and the way the house makes funny noises at night.
“Can we explore today?” she asks, hopping on one foot while I fasten her shoe.
“We can explore a little.” I finish the buckle before she can hop away on the other foot. “After breakfast.”
We make our way downstairs, following the smell of coffee. I’m almost to the foyer when I notice the commotion.
One staff member is on a ladder near the photo wall, carefully adjusting frames. Another stands below, passing up a new photograph. At first I don’t understand what’s happening - the gallery is being updated, perhaps, some rearrangement to accommodate recent events.
Then the man below the ladder lifts a familiar gilt frame from the table beside him, and I stop.
Our wedding photo.
I watch him carry it to a dim corner near the base of the staircase, where it will catch little light and draw no attention. The frame looked beautiful yesterday, centered and properly lit. Now it disappears into shadow like it was never important at all.
In its place, they’re hanging a new photograph.
I move closer, Summer’s hand still in mine, and look at the image they’re positioning with such care.
It’s Valentin. Younger - early twenties, his face softer than I know it now.
He’s in formal clothes, some kind of family event, and beside him stands a girl with dark hair and sharp cheekbones and a smile that knows exactly how effective it is.
They’re not touching, but they’re standing close, angled toward each other with the ease of people who’ve known each other their whole lives.
The plaque beneath the photo catches the light.
Valentin and Ginevra Solano.