8. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
The seamstress kneels at my feet, a pincushion strapped to her wrist, adjusting the hem of a gown I did not choose.
Six days have passed since I hid the bag in the closet.
Teresa is still working, though the accusation has never been withdrawn.
Delfina no longer winces every time she sits down.
And Ginevra has stopped asking anyone to help her across a room.
The fiesta is tonight, and this morning Costanza summoned me to the morning room for what she called a fitting.
The gown is pewter gray, a color that washes out my skin and makes me look vaguely ill. The neckline is higher than I would wear, the sleeves longer, the overall effect one of deliberate diminishment. I look like someone’s maiden aunt attending a funeral.
“The color is very elegant,” Costanza says from her chair by the window. She hasn’t moved since I arrived, watching the proceedings like a director overseeing a scene. “Very appropriate for a family occasion.”
“I had thought I might wear the navy.”
“The navy is too bold. We want something that photographs well without drawing attention.”
The seamstress shifts on her knees, moving to the other side of the hem. She’s a local woman, brought in for the day, and she keeps her eyes on her work. I don’t blame her for that.
“I’ve worn the navy to several events,” I say. “It photographs fine.”
“This is different.” Costanza’s voice carries the particular patience of someone explaining something obvious to a child. “The fiesta is a significant occasion. The family will be photographed together. We want cohesion, not competition.”
I look at myself in the mirror that’s been brought in for the fitting. The woman reflected back looks tired and faded, the gray fabric draining whatever color might have been in her face. This is deliberate. Everything Costanza does is deliberate.
“The waist needs to come in,” Costanza says to the seamstress. “And the shoulders are sitting strangely. Can you adjust that?”
“Yes, Donna Costanza.” The seamstress rises and moves behind me, tugging at the fabric across my back.
“I don’t want the waist taken in,” I say. “It’s fine as it is.”
“It’s loose.” Costanza addresses the seamstress instead of me. “The photograph will show every fold. We should make sure it fits properly.”
“It fits well enough. Leave the waist.”
The seamstress hesitates, her hands still on the fabric, looking between me and Costanza. For a moment no one moves.
“Leave the waist,” I repeat, meeting the seamstress’s eyes in the mirror. “And the shoulders are fine. Just finish the hem.”
She nods and kneels again, returning to her pins. Costanza closes the booklet of fabric samples on her lap. The seamstress works without looking up again.
The door opens and Ginevra enters, dressed in cream silk that makes her look like she’s already attending the event. Her ankle shows no sign of the injury she claimed, her walk smooth and confident.
“Oh, you’re still fitting.” She settles into the chair beside Costanza, arranging her skirt. “That color is interesting. Very… subtle.”
“Thank you.” I keep my voice neutral. “I understand you’ll be attending tonight as well. Your ankle must be feeling better.”
“Much better, thank you.” She smiles, all warmth and graciousness. “The doctor said it was just a mild sprain. These things heal quickly.”
“How fortunate.”
Costanza shifts in her chair, drawing attention back to herself. “We should discuss the arrangements for this evening. Ginevra has been so helpful with the committee planning. She’ll be arriving with the family for the formal entrance.”
“The formal entrance.” I watch Costanza’s reflection in the mirror. “I assumed I would be arriving with Valentin.”
“Well.” Costanza’s pause is perfectly calibrated. “Given the… unfortunate incident last week, I’m not sure that would be wise. The press will be there. We don’t want any awkwardness.”
“What awkwardness would there be?”
“People talk, Solenne. The household staff, the families. Word gets around.” She folds her hands in her lap, the picture of reasonable concern.
“It might be better if you arrived separately. Later in the evening, perhaps, when the formal photographs are finished. You could join the guests for the dancing and the dinner.”
I understand now. The theft, the staged injury, the carefully constructed narrative of an incident. All of it was building to this moment, to this reasonable-sounding suggestion that I absent myself from the one event that matters.
“I see.” I keep my voice steady. “So I won’t be standing with my husband when the family is introduced.”
“It’s just this once. After everything settles down, after Ginevra goes home, things can return to normal.” Costanza’s smile is almost kind. “We’re thinking of you, really. The scrutiny of the press can be so unpleasant. This way you can enjoy the evening without all that pressure.”
The seamstress finishes the hem and sits back on her heels, waiting. I look at myself in the mirror one more time, at the gray dress that was chosen to make me invisible, at the two women behind me who have arranged everything so carefully.
“I think I’ll wear my own dress tonight,” I say. “The navy one. Or perhaps something else from my closet.”
“Solenne…”
“Thank you for arranging the fitting.” I step down from the small platform. “I’m sure the gown is lovely. But I’ll make my own choice about what to wear to my husband’s family event.”
“Would you help me out of it, please?” I ask the seamstress.
I step behind the folding screen with her. She removes the pins before opening the fastening, and I thank her quietly while I reach for my own clothes. None of this is her fault.
On the other side of the screen, Costanza begins discussing Ginevra’s wrap.
By the time I emerge, the pewter gown is back on its hanger and they have found something else to decide without me. I leave them to it.
***
The garden is warm in the afternoon sun, the April air carrying the scent of lemon blossoms and something sweeter I can’t identify. Summer is playing near the fountain with Lucia watching from the bench, chasing a butterfly that keeps landing just out of reach.
I find Delfina by the herb beds, settling a small plant into the soil. She has brought a low stool out with her and keeps her movements small, taking care of her healing hip. She looks up when she hears my footsteps on the gravel path.
“Signora.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “I was hoping to find you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure wrong is the word.” She glances toward the house, then back at me. “I overheard something a few minutes ago. A telephone call.”
I sit on the low stone wall that borders the herb garden, giving her space to continue.
“Don Valentin left early for town. Committee business, preparations for tonight.” Delfina keeps her voice low. “Just now, I was in the hallway near the study when Donna Costanza made a call. She addressed him by name.”
“What did she say?”
“She told him that Summer had developed a fever. That you had decided to stay home with her tonight, that it was better not to risk bringing a sick child to a crowded event.” Delfina’s hands twist in her apron.
“She said you insisted on staying, that you were worried about Summer and didn’t want to leave her. ”
I look across the garden at my daughter, who is now crouched by the fountain, showing the butterfly to Bunny. She’s been healthy all week. No fever, no symptoms, no sign of illness.
“Summer is fine.”
“I know. I checked on her myself this morning.” Delfina meets my eyes. “She told him you had everything in hand. That there was no need for him to come back.”
I try to process this. Valentin left this morning believing everything was normal.
Now he’s in town, preparing for the fiesta, believing his wife has decided not to come because their daughter is ill.
And tonight he’ll stand at that event with his mother and Ginevra, and everyone will see the perfect Caruso family, and I won’t be there to contradict the picture.
“Did she say I would call him?”
“Not while I was there. I only heard her side of the conversation.” Delfina hesitates. “She and Signorina Solano are leaving within the hour to meet him in town. They’ll arrive together for the formal entrance.”
I think of our last argument, of trying to finish a sentence while he asked me to keep the peace.
My phone is in my pocket. I take it out, and for a moment my thumb rests over his name. I could spend the next hour asking him what his mother has arranged, listening while he asks her to explain.
Across the garden, Summer jumps away from a splash of fountain water, laughing. There is nothing to explain about her health. I want to stand beside him with our daughter and let him see us.
I put the phone away.
“Delfina.” I keep my voice calm. “Does your nephew still have access to a car?”
She looks at me for a long moment, reading something in my face. “He does. Marco. He drives me to see my sister when I have an afternoon off.”
“Could he drive me to town this evening? After Costanza and Ginevra have left?”
“I can ask him.” She doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t need to. “He would need to know when to come.”
“Before sunset, once they’ve gone. In time for the entrance.” I stand up from the stone wall. “I want to be there when the family arrives. I want Valentin to see that Summer is fine, that I didn’t choose to stay home, that…” I stop, not sure how to finish the sentence.
Delfina nods slowly. “I’ll call him. He can meet you by the garden gate.”
“Thank you.”
She turns back to her herbs, then pauses.
“Signora. You should know something. The Donna… she has done this before. Not exactly this, but… similar things. When someone threatens what she’s built, she finds ways to remove them.
Quietly, always with a reasonable explanation, always in a way that makes the other person look difficult or unstable. ”
“You said before that she set the table long before I arrived. Is this what you meant?”