7. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
Valentin pulls off the second shoe and sets it beside the first. I’m still holding the blouse I was folding when he walked in, my hands frozen mid-motion.
“There’s more to what happened than your mother told you.”
He leans back in the chair and looks at me, really looks, and I can see how tired he is. The shadows under his eyes have deepened since this morning. Whatever kept him away all day has worn him down to something frayed and thin.
“I know there was an argument.” He loosens his collar another button. “Mother mentioned it got heated.”
“Delfina was there. I need you to listen…”
“Even if you had a disagreement, you should have told me.” He’s not angry, just weary, the words coming out with the resignation of someone who wants this conversation to be over before it begins. “You shouldn’t have let it become physical.”
“I didn’t let anything become anything. I was…”
“Ginevra might have a sprain. The doctor had to come out.”
“Delfina is the reason I’m trying to explain this.”
“Mother said she was involved.”
“Then let me finish.”
He looks down at the shoes beside his chair.
“Look, I understand that you and Ginevra don’t get along.
And I understand that living with my mother hasn’t been easy.
But we’re a week out from the fiesta, and I need everyone to just…
” He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the room, the house, the entire situation.
“Keep the peace. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You haven’t asked me what happened.”
“I know what happened.”
“You know what they told you.”
He opens his mouth, then looks past me at the laundry basket. I wait. This would be the moment to ask.
“Please.” His voice has gone soft, almost pleading. “Not tonight. I have the trade council at dawn, and I can barely think straight. Whatever this is, whatever happened, can it just wait? One week. Ginevra goes home after the fiesta, and then we can sort everything out properly.”
I set the blouse down on the bed. My hands need something to do that isn’t holding fabric I’ll only crumple.
I want to make him sit still and listen until I’m finished.
I want it badly enough that I take another breath to try.
I could push harder. I could tell him exactly what I saw, what Ginevra did, what his mother threatened.
But I can hear Costanza’s voice in my head, cold and certain: Delfina will be the first to go. Tomorrow morning. An hour to pack.
A half-heard accusation costs more than silence. If I say it wrong, if he doesn’t believe me, if he goes to his mother for clarification, Delfina pays the price. Teresa pays the price. Everyone who depends on this household pays the price.
I’ve tried to tell him when I’ve been shut out, when I needed him beside me. Each conversation ends with another date when he will have time to listen. I haven’t even got him to ask a question tonight.
He’s looking at me now with something like hope, waiting for me to agree, to give him the peace he’s asking for.
“I’m going to finish putting these away.” I pick up another shirt from the basket. “You should get ready for bed.”
He waits another second, then takes that as permission to stop, rising from the chair and moving toward the bathroom. I hear the door close, hear water running, hear all the small sounds of routine that mean he’s already moved on.
I fold the shirt and set it on the stack, then reach for the next one.
Through the bathroom door I can hear the shower running, the familiar rhythm of water against tile.
My phone is on the nightstand where I left it this morning, and when I pick it up to check the time, I see a notification I missed earlier.
A voice message from Odette, sent this afternoon while I was building block towers with Summer.
I find my earbuds in the nightstand drawer and put one in, keeping the volume low. Odette’s voice fills my ear, warm and exasperated in equal measure.
“So the gaffer on this commercial shoot, right, he’s convinced that the client wants the lighting to look like, and I quote, ‘the inside of a golden hour but also dramatic like a thunderstorm.’ I asked him if he meant moody or bright and he said yes.
Both. Simultaneously.” She laughs, the familiar sound of someone who’s been in this industry long enough to find its absurdities entertaining rather than infuriating.
“Anyway, I told him to pick a lane and he looked at me like I’d suggested we shoot the whole thing underwater.
Which, honestly, might make more sense at this point. ”
I smile despite myself. This is what I miss. Not just the work, but the texture of it, the daily nonsense that makes you want to tear your hair out and also keeps you coming back. The shared language of people who understand that creative vision and practical reality are often in open warfare.
“I’m sending you a photo of the lighting setup he finally landed on,” Odette continues.
“I need you to tell me if I’m losing my mind or if it actually looks like the sun is having a nervous breakdown.
Also, when are you going to call me? I know you’re busy being a fancy Sicilian wife or whatever, but I miss your face.
And your opinions. Mostly your opinions. ”
The message ends. I look at the photo she attached, a behind-the-scenes shot of what appears to be Odette beside a perfume bottle, her face washed a spectacular shade of orange. I start typing a reply.
The sun is definitely having a breakdown. You look like you’re advertising carrots.
I pause, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. I could say more. I could tell her about today, about Ginevra, about the conversation I just had with my husband. Odette would listen. She’d probably get on the next flight if I asked her to.
But I don’t know what I’d be asking her to do. I don’t know what I’m doing yet myself.
I miss this, I type instead. I miss having opinions that anyone wants to hear.
I read the words back. They’re true, but they’re also more honest than I meant to be. I delete the second sentence and replace it with something simpler.
Call you tomorrow. Miss you too.
I send the message and put the phone back on the nightstand, the earbud back in the drawer. The shower has stopped. I hear the bathroom door open and Valentin emerges in his pajamas, toweling his hair.
“Did Summer finish the castle story before bed?”
“The princess found a secret passage. We left off there.”
“She’ll want to know where it leads.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
He drapes the towel over the back of the chair and crosses to his side of the bed, checking that his phone is charging, setting the alarm. Small domestic motions, the choreography of a shared life. I wait until he has finished before reaching for my nightgown.
I change into my nightgown while he’s adjusting the alarm time, then get into bed and turn onto my side, facing the window. The sheets are cool against my skin. Behind me, I feel the mattress dip as Valentin settles in.
“You awake?”
“Yes.”
I leave him room to continue. He adjusts his pillow, and after a while his breathing slows.
I think about Delfina, alone in her room down the hall, probably lying awake too. I think about Teresa, wondering if she should pack. Tomorrow I’ll find a way to reassure them, to figure out what comes next. Tonight there’s nothing I can do that won’t make things worse.
I close my eyes and wait for sleep. It comes eventually, shallow and uneasy, more like drifting than rest.
***
A cry from the connecting door jolts me awake.
“Mama!”
I’m out of bed before I’m fully conscious, crossing the room in the dark, my hand finding the doorframe to Summer’s room by memory. Behind me I hear Valentin stirring, a confused sound that means he’s not quite awake.
Summer is sitting up in her bed, her rabbit clutched against her chest, her face wet with tears. The nightlight by her dresser casts pale shadows across the wall.
“What happened, baby?” I sit on the edge of her bed and gather her into my lap. “Tell me.”
“The bird.” She’s trembling, her voice thick with sleep and fear. “The big bird tried to take Bunny.”
“A bird?”
“In my dream. It was huge and it came through the window and it grabbed Bunny and flew away and I couldn’t catch them.” She buries her face against my shoulder. “I tried to run but my legs wouldn’t go.”
“Bunny’s right here.” I can feel the rabbit pressed between us, its soft ears against my arm. “See? Safe and sound. No birds.”
“But it was so big.”
“I know. Dreams can feel very real.” I stroke her back, slow and steady. “But you’re awake now, and Bunny’s here, and there are no giant birds in your room. I promise.”
Valentin appears in the doorway, his hair disheveled, blinking against the dim light. “What’s wrong?”
“Bad dream. A bird tried to steal Bunny.”
“A bird?” He comes to kneel beside the bed, bringing himself to Summer’s eye level. “That sounds scary. Was it a big bird?”
Summer nods, her face still pressed against my nightgown. “Enormous. With claws.”
“Well.” Valentin reaches out and adjusts Bunny’s ears where they’ve gotten crumpled. “I think Bunny must be very brave. Most rabbits would have been terrified.”
“Bunny was scared,” Summer says. “But she didn’t cry.”
“That’s because she knew you’d come save her.”
Summer considers this. I feel her trembling start to ease, the immediate terror of the dream giving way to the comfort of being held, of having both parents here in the dark.
“Can I come to the big bed?”
I look at Valentin over her head. He nods.
“Just for tonight,” I tell her. “Come on.”
We make our way back through the connecting door, Summer clinging to my hand with Bunny tucked under her other arm. Valentin pulls back the covers on his side, and I guide Summer into the middle of the bed, settling her against the pillows.
“Bunny needs her own pillow,” Summer announces.
“Bunny can share yours.” Valentin tucks the rabbit in beside her, arranging the blankets so both of them are covered. “See? Nice and cozy.”