4. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
Late January brings a donor reception in town, and for once I’m looking forward to it.
Summer fell asleep early tonight, worn out from helping Delfina make bread. When we left, her rabbit was tucked under her chin and Delfina had promised to listen for her from the adjoining room.
I chose the midnight blue dress because I like how it moves, the way the fabric catches light when I turn. Valentin is in the car beside me, reviewing something on his phone, but when I shift in my seat he looks up.
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting. I’m adjusting.” I smooth the skirt across my knees. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” He pockets the phone, giving me his full attention for the first time today. “You look beautiful, by the way. I should have said that before we left.”
“You should have.” I keep my voice light. “But I’ll accept late compliments. I’m generous that way.”
He laughs, and I remember why I used to invent reasons to keep him on the phone. I want more of this tonight, a conversation neither of us has to hurry through.
The reception is at a restored villa on the edge of town, the kind of place that’s been hosting gatherings for centuries.
When we arrive, Valentin helps me out of the car.
I take his arm as we climb the steps, matching my pace to his.
Inside, the rooms are warm with candlelight and conversation, well-dressed people circulating with champagne glasses, the hum of a successful event already in progress.
We enter together. When a woman greets him, he introduces me before she has to ask, and I stay beside him to hear her answer. For perhaps thirty seconds, being his wife is uncomplicated.
Then Costanza appears.
She’s in her usual black, elegant and composed, and she greets us both with the particular warmth she reserves for public occasions.
“Valentin, there you are. The sponsors are gathering on the balcony. They’ve specifically requested a few minutes with the family representatives.
” Her eyes flick to me, then back to her son.
“Ginevra is waiting here. Perhaps you could escort her for the introductions? Just ten minutes, and then you’ll have the rest of the evening. ”
Ginevra. Of course.
I spot her across the room, in a dark green evening dress, watching this exchange with an expression of polite interest.
“I just arrived,” Valentin says. “Solenne and I were going to…”
“Ten minutes.” Costanza’s voice is smooth, reasonable. “You know how these donors are. They expect personal attention. And Ginevra’s family has been so generous to the foundation.”
Valentin looks at me. I can see him calculating, the familiar weighing of obligations.
“Ten minutes,” I agree. “Then come and find me. I’d like some of this evening with you.”
He turns back to me as Costanza starts toward the doorway. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him cross the room to Ginevra, watch her smile as he offers his arm, watch them disappear through a doorway toward the sponsors’ balcony with Costanza following close behind.
Ten minutes. I can manage ten minutes.
I accept a glass of champagne from a passing server and scan the room for a familiar face, or at least a friendly one.
***
The young woman finds me near the fireplace, where I’ve positioned myself with a reasonable view of the doorway Valentin disappeared through.
“Excuse me.” She’s maybe twenty, nervous in the way people get when they’re approaching someone they’ve recognized. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but… you’re Solenne Varga, aren’t you? The actress?”
It’s been months since anyone used my professional name. “I am.”
“I thought so.” Her face lights up. “I saw your film, the one set in the monastery. Twice, actually. I’m studying drama at the university in Catania, and my professor showed it in class as an example of… sorry, I’m rambling. You must get this all the time.”
“I don’t, actually. Not anymore.” I smile, genuinely pleased. “What’s your professor teaching you about it?”
“Restraint, mostly. How you made the character’s grief visible without ever really… performing it, I guess? Like it was just there, underneath everything else.” She flushes slightly. “That sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all.” I make room beside me.
She moves closer, still nervous but warming up. “I’m here with my aunt, she’s one of the donors. I didn’t expect to actually meet anyone I… sorry, that sounds terrible. I mean, obviously everyone here is important.”
“Obviously.” I keep my voice dry, and she laughs, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
We talk about craft for a while, about the difference between film and stage work, about the particular challenge of finding truth in a moment when there are thirty people watching you find it.
She’s smart, this girl, and genuinely curious, and I find myself enjoying the conversation more than I’ve enjoyed anything at one of these events in months.
“Can I ask you something?” Her expression has shifted, more serious now. “How do you know when a choice is right? In a scene, I mean. When there are so many ways to play something, how do you know which one is true?”
I consider the question. “You don’t, always.
Sometimes you make a choice and it’s wrong, and you have to be willing to throw it out and try again.
But usually…” I pause, searching for the right words.
“Usually it’s the choice that scares you a little.
The one that feels too honest. That’s usually the true one. ”
She nods slowly, turning this over. “My professor says the same thing. But it’s different hearing it from someone who actually…”
“Who actually failed at it a few times before getting it right?”
“I was going to say who actually made something beautiful.” She smiles. “But yes, that too.”
I glance toward the doorway. Still no Valentin. It’s been at least thirty minutes now, maybe more. The champagne in my hand has gone warm.
“I should probably check on my husband,” I say, and something in my voice must betray me because her expression shifts to something like sympathy.
“I hope the rest of your evening is better than the waiting part,” she says, which is more perceptive than I expected. “And thank you. For talking to me like a person instead of a fan.”
“You are a person.” I set down my empty glass. “Good luck with your studies. Trust your instincts. They’re good ones.”
I find a server who’s been circulating near the sponsors’ wing and ask if he can check whether my husband is still in the balcony meeting. He returns a few minutes later looking apologetic.
“The family representatives are taking photographs with the major donors, Signora. I’m told they’ll be finished shortly.”
Shortly. That could mean anything.
I pull out my phone and type a message to Valentin. You’ve been gone half an hour. Where are you?
No response. The message shows as delivered but not read.
I wait another ten minutes, making small talk with people whose names I immediately forget, my attention split between the conversation and the doorway that remains stubbornly empty. The room feels too warm now, too crowded, and the champagne I drank earlier sits uneasily in my stomach.
Near the windows, a woman’s mention of Hollywood interrupts my search for a place to set down my phone.
Two women, older, well-dressed, speaking in the particular tone people use when they think they’re being discreet and aren’t.
“…such an unusual match. She’s very pretty, of course, but an actress? From Hollywood?”
“Costanza told me the whole story.” The second woman lowers her voice, but not enough. “Apparently she got pregnant deliberately. To trap him. He was going to end things, and then suddenly…”
I stop behind the curtain drawn back from the window. The first woman has lowered her glass to listen. Neither of them sounds doubtful.
“Poor Valentin. Costanza says he’s doing his best, being honorable about it, but you can imagine how difficult…”
I move before I can think better of it, pushing toward a door that leads to a small gallery overlooking the central courtyard. The cold January air hits me as I step outside, sharp and clarifying.
He was going to end things.
That’s not what happened. That’s not anything close to what happened.
When I told Valentin I was pregnant, he asked if I’d eaten.
I got angry because I thought he’d missed what I’d just said.
He repeated it back to me, looking so pleased with himself I almost laughed.
Then he admitted he was terrified, too. We stayed at the kitchen table until dinner went cold, talking about the baby and what we both wanted. I didn’t have to convince him to stay.
We got married because we wanted to. We got married because the life we were building together felt more real than anything either of us had known before. That choice belonged to both of us.
But that’s not the story Costanza is telling.
I grip the gallery railing and make myself breathe. The cold air stings my lungs, but it’s better than the suffocating warmth inside, better than standing there pretending I didn’t hear what I heard.
Below me, the courtyard is lit by lanterns. And on the lower loggia, visible through a stone archway, a photographer is arranging a group.
I recognize Costanza immediately, her black dress stark against the pale stone. She’s gesturing, directing people into position with the particular authority of someone who’s been staging these moments her entire life.
Valentin stands near the center of the group, Ginevra beside him.
They’re surrounded by what must be the major donors and their families, everyone arranged for a formal photograph.
As I watch, Costanza moves Valentin slightly to his left, closer to Ginevra, adjusting the composition until they’re positioned together in the frame.
He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t know I’m watching. He’s doing what he’s been asked to do, standing where he’s been told to stand, the dutiful son playing his assigned role.