3. Solenne #3
When I wake, the bedside lamp is still on and my book has slipped off my chest onto the blankets. Valentin is at the dresser, his back to me, loosening his watch from his wrist. I blink at the clock. Nearly one-thirty.
“What time did you get in?” My voice comes out rough with sleep.
He turns, startled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” I push myself up against the pillows, trying to shake off the fog. “I was waiting. We need to talk about today.”
“Today.” He sets his watch on the dresser, next to our wedding photograph. “The luncheon. How was it?”
“Your mother invited Ginevra to stay overnight. No one told me until it was already decided.”
He’s already reaching for the buttons on his shirt, his movements slow with exhaustion. “Ginevra’s family and ours have been…”
“Close for generations. Yes. Everyone keeps telling me that.” I wait until he turns to look at me. “I’m not asking you to refuse guests. I’m asking to be part of decisions about our household.”
“You’re right.” He drags his unbuttoned shirt off one shoulder, then the other, and reaches for a clean T-shirt. “I didn’t realize…” He loses the rest of the sentence to a yawn, then rubs at his eyes. “Sorry. Keep going.”
“And there’s more. At the luncheon…”
But he’s already climbing into bed, his weight settling into the mattress beside me, his eyes half-closed. “Can you… I’m sorry. I can barely keep my eyes open. Tell me tomorrow?”
“Valentin…”
“Tomorrow, I promise.” His words are already blurring against the pillow. “Just need to sleep first.”
His breathing changes within minutes, the deep even rhythm I’ve come to know means he’s truly out.
I lift my fallen book from the blankets and slide it onto the nightstand, thinking about how many conversations have ended this way.
How many tomorrow, I promise have dissolved into early meetings and urgent calls and never quite materializing.
He doesn’t mean to break his promises. I believe that. He’s drowning in a job he never trained for, responsibilities that landed on him overnight when his father died. But believing it doesn’t make it easier to be the thing that keeps getting postponed.
Eventually I turn off the lamp and close my eyes.
***
In the morning, I wake alone.
No note this time. Valentin’s side of the bed is cold, the covers already pulled up the way he does when he’s trying to let me sleep. Through the bathroom door, I can hear the pipes in the wall, someone running water elsewhere in the house.
I shower quickly and dress in comfortable clothes, dark trousers and a soft gray sweater. When I check Summer’s room, her bed is empty, covers thrown back, her rabbit missing from its spot on the pillow.
That’s normal. Delfina often brings her down for breakfast while I’m getting ready. It’s become our routine over the past two months, Summer helping in the kitchen while I have an extra fifteen minutes to wake up properly. I head downstairs, following the smell of coffee and something baking.
I hear voices before I reach the kitchen doorway. Summer’s high chatter, Delfina’s warm responses, and something else. Another woman’s voice, lower, amused.
When I turn the corner, I understand.
Summer is at the worn wooden table, sitting in someone’s lap. Not Delfina’s. Ginevra’s.
Delfina is at the counter nearby, pulling a tray from the oven, her attention on the pastries she’s just baked. The kitchen smells like sugar and butter and the particular warmth of a room where good things are being made.
But my eyes are fixed on the table. On my daughter in another woman’s lap. On the plate of jam tarts between them, the ones Summer helped make yesterday, and on the way Ginevra is showing her how to fold a napkin into a shape.
“…and then you tuck this corner under, like this. See? It’s a little rabbit, just like yours.”
Summer giggles and reaches for the napkin creation. “Bunny doesn’t need a friend. She wants more breakfast.”
“Then we’ll make sure she gets some.” Ginevra breaks one of the tarts in half and offers a piece to Summer with easy confidence. “Try this one. I helped Delfina with the jam.”
My first impulse is to pick Summer up. Then I see the jam on her chin and stop myself. She’s having breakfast with someone who’s being nice to her. There is nothing in that for her to explain or apologize for.
It’s Ginevra I want to ask about. Yesterday she offered to teach me how to belong here; this morning she’s sitting in my usual chair with my daughter on her knee. I can’t find a way to say that aloud without making Summer’s happy morning about me.
But Summer looks up before I can move.
“Mama!” She waves the tart at me, scattering crumbs across her pajama front. “We made breakfast! Ginny helped!”
She doesn’t climb down from Ginevra’s lap. She doesn’t run to me the way she usually does when I appear in the morning. She stays exactly where she is, comfortable and happy, reaching for another tart.
“Ginny makes the good ones, Mama,” Summer says.
Ginevra looks up at me over my daughter’s head, and smiles.