3. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
Two months in, and I’ve learned to read the silences.
The wedding photograph sits on Valentin’s dresser now, angled toward the bed where I can see it when I wake up.
I moved it upstairs myself the morning after I found it hidden in that dim corner of the foyer, and no one has said a word about its absence.
The old photograph of Valentin and Ginevra still hangs where ours used to be downstairs, lit and centered, and I’ve trained myself not to look at it when I pass.
Today is Costanza’s charity luncheon. A fundraiser for the children’s reading room she’s been organizing since before Emanuele died.
December light filters through the bedroom windows, pale and thin, as I finish fastening the buttons on my burgundy dress. Winter-weight silk, elegant without trying too hard. I know how to dress for events like this. I’ve done it a hundred times.
Summer is with Delfina for the afternoon, settled in the warm kitchen with coloring books and the promise of helping make jam tarts later.
When I kissed her goodbye, she was already absorbed in drawing what she assured me was a picture of Delfina’s cat, though it looked more like a purple cloud with whiskers.
The reading room project is the kind of cause I could genuinely care about. A space where children who might not have books at home can come after school, can be read to, can discover stories.
When Costanza mentioned it at dinner last week, I asked about the families it would serve, the children who would benefit. She answered in clipped sentences and changed the subject.
I check my reflection one more time. The woman in the mirror looks composed, professional, ready. She doesn’t look like someone who’s spent two months being seated at the far end of every table.
Valentin left before dawn, something about a meeting with the estate accountant that couldn’t be rescheduled. He said he’d try to make it back for the luncheon. I’ve learned what try means in this house.
***
The main reception room has been transformed into something out of a design magazine.
White linens cover the long tables, and arrangements of winter roses and silver-green eucalyptus cascade from tall vases at each corner.
The December light through the windows is weak but flattering, supplemented by candles in the wall sconces that give the room a warm glow despite the gray sky outside.
I recognize some faces from the memorial luncheon weeks ago - local women whose names I’ve been careful to learn and remember. They cluster in small groups, and when I enter, a few of them glance my way with expressions that don’t quite commit to anything.
There’s a seating chart near the entrance, place cards arranged on a silver tray.
I find my name and trace the table assignment: Table Four, near the back, between the wife of a distant cousin and an elderly woman I don’t recognize.
The seat beside Costanza at Table One has no card yet.
I turn the card over, hoping I’ve missed something, then put it back on the tray.
A woman I met briefly at the memorial approaches me - silver hair, good jewelry, the kind of smile that seems genuine. “Solenne. I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk. I saw your last film, the one with the monastery. You were wonderful in it.”
The compliment catches me off guard. It’s been weeks since anyone here asked about the work I was doing right up until we moved.
“Thank you.” I accept her offered hand. “That was a challenging shoot - we filmed in an actual working monastery, and the abbot kept forgetting we weren’t there for a silent retreat.”
She laughs, a real laugh, and I feel something in my shoulders release slightly. “I can only imagine. Will you continue acting? Now that you’re here?”
“I hope to.” The words are true, even if they feel increasingly unlikely. “Once we’re settled.”
Another woman materializes beside us - younger, sharper features, dressed in something expensive that doesn’t suit her coloring. She inserts herself into the conversation with the particular confidence of someone who expects to be accommodated.
“It must be such an adjustment,” she says, her voice pitched to carry. “Coming here from Hollywood. Leaving behind everything you knew.” She pauses just long enough for the words to land. “Though I suppose some things were easier to leave than others.”
I recognize the shape of what’s coming. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Just that it all happened so fast.” The woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The marriage, the baby. Some people wondered if perhaps Valentin felt… obligated.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Around us, other conversations have quieted. People are listening.
“Obligated.” I let the word sit there for a moment, giving it the attention it deserves. “That’s an interesting theory. The kind of thing people say when they don’t actually know the people involved.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest…”
“You did.” I keep my voice pleasant, conversational, the way I’ve learned to do when a journalist asks something invasive on a press line.
“And you’re welcome to your theories. But Valentin and I chose each other.
We’ve been choosing each other for four years.
If you’re looking for a scandal, you’ll have to look somewhere else. ”
The woman’s smile falters. The silver-haired woman beside me makes a small sound that might be approval.
“Of course,” the sharp-featured woman says, recovering. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”
“Of course.” I match her tone exactly. “Lovely to see you.”
She retreats toward the safety of her cluster, and I allow myself a small moment of satisfaction before turning back to my original companion. But before we can resume our conversation, I notice a shift in the room - a subtle rearrangement of attention, bodies turning toward the entrance.
Ginevra Solano has arrived.
She hands a camel-wool coat to a waiting member of staff, revealing cream cashmere beneath it, her dark hair swept back, her makeup flawless in a way that suggests she spent exactly the right amount of time on it.
She moves through the room accepting kisses on both cheeks, laughing at something someone says, looking completely at ease.
I watch Costanza rise from her seat to greet her, pulling her into an embrace that lasts longer than any greeting I’ve received in this house.
They speak quietly, heads close together, and then Costanza gestures toward the empty chair beside her own - the one at Table One, the one with no place card.
Ginevra settles into it like she belongs there.
I’ve met her before, at the memorial, a brief introduction and a few polite words. She was gracious then, welcoming, said something about how lovely it was to finally meet the woman Valentin had married. At the time I took it at face value.
Now I watch her survey the room with the confidence of someone who knows every person in it, and I wonder what else I took at face value that I shouldn’t have.
She excuses herself from Costanza and makes her way toward me, her heels clicking on the marble floor with measured precision.
“Solenne.” She places a hand briefly on my shoulder, a gesture that manages to feel both intimate and condescending. “I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk properly. The memorial was so chaotic.”
“It was.” I don’t step back from the touch, but I don’t lean into it either. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know how these things are.” She waves a hand vaguely.
“Busy season. But I couldn’t miss this - the reading room project is so close to my heart.
” She tilts her head, studying me with an expression of warm concern.
“How are you settling in? It must be overwhelming, trying to learn everyone’s names, all the little customs we take for granted.
I grew up with these families, and even I sometimes find it exhausting. ”
“I’m managing.” I keep my voice neutral. “Valentin’s been helpful when he’s here.”
“When he’s here.” Something flickers in her eyes - sympathy, or something pretending to be sympathy. “He’s always been so busy, even before his father passed. I do worry about him.”
“He has good support.”
“Well.” She lowers her voice, making the offer sound like a confidence. “If you ever need guidance - with the customs, the families, any of it - please don’t hesitate to ask. I know how difficult it can be, coming into a world like this from outside. I’d be happy to help.”
The offer lands exactly where she intended it to land.
“That’s very kind,” I say. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
She smiles and drifts back toward Table One, where Costanza is waiting. I watch her go and think about the particular art of saying something generous that isn’t generous at all.
The luncheon begins with a presentation about the reading room - photographs of the space, descriptions of the programs they’re planning, stories about children in the community who will benefit.
Despite everything, I find myself moved by it.
This is real work, important work. These are children who will have a place to go, books to read, adults who will pay attention to them.
I take my seat at Table Four and make conversation with the elderly woman beside me, who turns out to be someone’s great-aunt and who remembers when this house hosted parties every weekend.
She tells me about the gardens as they were fifty years ago, about Valentin’s grandmother, about the way the family used to gather on the terraces in summer.
The food is excellent - winter vegetables and fresh fish and pasta in a sauce I don’t recognize but want the recipe for. For stretches of time, I almost forget that I’m being deliberately marginalized.
Then the photographer arrives.