9. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
Summer stops so suddenly at the mouth of the side street that I nearly walk past her.
Strings of lights crisscross overhead, thousands of tiny bulbs turning the square into a glowing canopy.
The old stone buildings are draped in garlands of flowers and ribbons in the town colors, and a stage has been erected at the far end where musicians are tuning their instruments.
The fountain at the center has been decorated with floating candles, their flames dancing on the water’s surface.
Summer gasps beside me, her hand tightening around mine. “Mama. Look.”
“I see, baby.”
We’ve entered from a side street, away from the main approach where the families will arrive.
The crowd is already thick, townspeople and visitors milling between food stalls and craft vendors, children running with sparklers that leave trails of light in the dimming air.
No one looks at us twice. We’re just another mother and daughter here to enjoy the festival.
I find a spot near the fountain where we can see the main entrance to the square, the archway where the official procession will pass through. Summer tugs at my hand, pointing at a stall selling spun sugar in bright colors.
“Can I have one?”
“After the music starts.” I lift her onto the edge of the fountain’s low wall so she can see over the crowd. “Hold onto Bunny tight. We don’t want to lose her.”
Summer clutches the rabbit against her chest and surveys the square with the serious attention of a four-year-old taking inventory. “Where’s the ice cream?”
“I’m not sure yet. We’ll find it.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’ll be here soon.”
I check the time on my phone. The formal entrance should begin in the next few minutes. Around us, people are starting to drift toward the main archway, positioning themselves for a good view. I stay where I am, close enough to see but far enough back that we won’t be jostled.
The musicians strike up a fanfare, and a ripple of excitement moves through the crowd. Summer bounces on her perch, straining to see.
“Is that him? Is that Daddy?”
“Not yet. Wait.”
The mayor appears first, resplendent in his ceremonial sash, waving to the crowd with the practiced ease of a man who has done this many times before.
Behind him come the town councillors, then the representatives of the old families, a procession of names and faces I’ve been learning for six months.
And then the Carusos.
Costanza enters first, elegant in black, her silver hair swept back, her posture perfect. She acknowledges the crowd with gracious nods, every inch the grieving widow who has nonetheless risen to support her son in his new role. The applause for her is warm, respectful.
Ginevra walks beside her, radiant in cream silk that catches the light with every movement. Her ankle shows no trace of injury, her stride smooth and confident. She smiles at the cameras, at the crowd, at anyone who might be watching. She looks like she belongs here.
And behind them, Valentin.
He’s in a dark suit, formal and composed, but there’s tension in his shoulders. His eyes move over the crowd, and he checks his watch. The gesture is brief, distracted, the motion of a man whose mind is elsewhere.
Summer sees him at the same moment I do. “Daddy!” She waves both arms, Bunny flapping wildly. “Daddy, over here!”
Her voice is swallowed by the fanfare, by the applause, by the noise of hundreds of people celebrating. Valentin doesn’t turn. He’s facing the stage now, where the mayor is taking his position at the microphone.
“He can’t hear me.” Summer’s arms drop, her face crumpling with disappointment.
“It’s very loud, sweetheart. We’ll find him after.”
“But I want him to see my dress.”
“He will. Just wait a little longer.”
The mayor begins his welcome speech, his voice amplified across the square. I hear the words but don’t process them, watching the tableau near the archway where the Caruso family has positioned themselves for the official photographs.
Costanza takes the center before the photographer has finished raising his camera. Ginevra is at her side, angled toward the cameras. And Valentin stands slightly apart, his attention on the stage, listening to the mayor’s speech with the dutiful expression of a man fulfilling an obligation.
The photographer calls for the family to gather closer. Costanza reaches out and draws Valentin toward her, positioning him between herself and Ginevra. The photographer adjusts his camera, checking angles, giving directions I can’t hear from this distance.
Ginevra takes the opening.
She slips her arm through Valentin’s, the gesture smooth and natural, as though she’s done it a thousand times. Then she tilts her head, just slightly, and rests it against his shoulder.
The cameras flash.
I watch my husband stand perfectly still while another woman leans against him, while the photographers capture the image that will appear in tomorrow’s papers, while the crowd murmurs approval at the lovely picture the Caruso family makes.
He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t step back.
He stands there, doing what he’s been arranged to do, while his wife and daughter watch from twenty feet away.
Summer tugs at my hand. “Mama, can we go closer now? The pictures are done.”
But they’re not done. The photographer is repositioning, asking for another angle, and Ginevra hasn’t moved from Valentin’s side. Costanza smiles toward the cameras. They look complete. They look like a family.
A woman standing near us turns to her companion. “Such a lovely young woman. She and Don Valentin make a beautiful pair.”
“Exactly what the family needs,” her companion agrees. “Someone with proper breeding who understands how things work.”
Summer looks up at me, confused by the words she doesn’t understand but sensing something wrong. I smooth her hair back from her face, trying to keep my expression steady.
“Mama? Why do you look sad?”
“I’m not sad, sweetheart.” The lie comes out automatically. “I’m just tired.”
“Can we go see Daddy now? Please?”
I look at the crowd between us and the Caruso family, at the photographers still circling, at the important people of the town waiting their turn to shake hands and offer congratulations.
I think about pushing through, about walking up to my husband with our daughter in her yellow sundress and showing everyone that we’re here, that we exist, that the story they’ve been told isn’t true.
And then I think about what happens next.
The explanations, the excuses, the careful smoothing over.
Costanza’s reasonable voice explaining about misunderstandings and fevers that broke at the last minute.
Valentin caught in the middle, asking everyone to keep the peace, promising we’ll talk about it later.
I’ve been later for six months.
“We’re going to go now, baby.”
“To see Daddy?”
“No.” I lift her from the fountain wall, settling her against my hip. “We’re going home to pack some things, and then we’re going to take a trip.”
“A trip?” Her face crumples. “But I want to see the fireworks. You said there would be fireworks.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I start walking toward the side street where Marco is waiting, away from the lights and the music and the photograph that doesn’t include us. “There will be other fireworks.”
“But I wanted these ones.” The tears start, hot and frustrated. “I wanted to show Daddy my dress.”
I hold her tighter and keep walking. Her crying is loud in my ear, each sob a small accusation. I did this. I brought her here with promises of music and her father and ice cream, and now I’m carrying her away before any of it can happen.
“I’m upset right now, sweetheart.” I keep my voice as steady as I can. “You haven’t done anything wrong. But we need to leave.”
“Why?”
Because I can’t stand here for one more minute watching someone else stand in my place. Because your grandmother told your father I chose to stay home, and he believed her. Because I don’t know how to explain any of this to you in words a four-year-old can understand.
“Because Mama needs to go somewhere else for a while. And you’re coming with me.”
The side street is quiet after the noise of the square, the music fading as we move away from the celebration. Marco’s car is parked exactly where he said it would be, and he straightens when he sees us approaching.
“Back to the villa?”
“Yes. I need to pack.”
He opens the back door and helps me settle Summer into her car seat. Her tears have subsided into hiccups, and she clutches Bunny against her chest with both hands.
“I wanted to dance with Daddy,” she whispers.
“I know, baby. I know.”
I climb into the front seat and Marco pulls away from the curb. Through the rear window, I can see the glow of the festival lights against the darkening sky.
Summer is quiet for the rest of the drive, her energy spent. By the time we reach the villa, her eyes are closed, though I can tell from her breathing that she’s not quite asleep.
“Can you wait here for a few minutes?” I ask Marco. “I need to get our things together.”
“Of course. Take your time.”
I lift Summer from her seat and carry her inside through the side entrance. Delfina is in the kitchen, and she rises when she sees us.
“What happened?”
“I need to pack. We’re leaving tonight.”
“Leaving?”
“I’ll explain later.” I shift Summer’s weight on my hip. “Can you sit with her while I get our things? There’s a flight to Rome tonight, and I can book a connection from there.”
Delfina’s face goes still, then settles into something like understanding. “Give her to me. I’ll make sure she eats something.”
I hand Summer over, and she goes without protest, too tired to argue. Delfina settles her at the kitchen table with a plate of bread and cheese and the biscuits she loves, and Summer picks at them listlessly while I head upstairs.