Epilogue
Solenne
The boat rocks gently beneath us, anchored in a sheltered bay off the eastern coast of Sicily.
A year has passed since the festival, and we’re back for Summer’s school break.
It’s late afternoon, the sun moving toward the hills beyond the shore. We’ve been out since dawn, and the day has been everything a family day on the water should be.
Summer learned to coil rope this morning, her small hands working carefully under Valentin’s patient instruction while the skipper kept us on course.
She steered for ten minutes, standing on a crate to reach the wheel, announcing our heading to imaginary passengers with the authority of someone who has been captaining ships her whole life.
By lunch, she was salt-crusted and hungry and happier than I’ve seen her in weeks. She stayed on deck until an hour ago, when she finally admitted she was tired. Now she’s napping below, her life jacket hanging beside her bunk.
I’m sitting on the deck with my feet up, watching the light change across the water. There’s something I need to tell Valentin before the day ends. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, and I think it might be coming soon.
The past year has been good. Not perfect, because nothing is perfect, but good in the way that matters.
We figured out the logistics of two homes and one family, building a schedule around Summer’s school in Los Angeles and my work and Valentin’s work.
The villa became somewhere we visit for holidays and writing time, not somewhere I have to give up the rest of my life to live.
In February, I started developing a new project with Rachel. A limited series about a woman who inherits her grandmother’s restaurant and has to decide whether to sell it or learn to run it herself.
Valentin read the early drafts and asked questions about the grandmother’s backstory that I hadn’t thought to explore. His questions made the story better. I told him so, and he looked genuinely pleased, the way he does when he’s helped with something that matters to me.
Last month, we disagreed about the summer. I’d found a theater camp near our house in Los Angeles. Valentin had been planning time here with Summer’s cousins. We each arrived at dinner with a calendar and a reason our idea made sense.
Halfway through, Summer asked whether either plan included swimming lessons with her friend Sophie.
Neither of us had thought to ask her.
We moved the calendars aside and let her show us the leaflet she’d brought home from school. There were three things she wanted to do, and no possible way to do them all. By the time we finished dinner, we had crossed out something from each of our plans.
She will have her lessons. We will have time here. The theater camp can wait, which disappointed me more than it disappointed her.
I told Valentin that while we cleared the table.
“You could go,” he suggested.
“The oldest group is ten.”
“You look young.”
I flicked a wet towel at him. He caught it and dried the plates.
The skipper emerges from his cabin, checks something on the instrument panel, and gives me a nod before disappearing again. He’s been with the family for years, discreet and competent, keeping the boat running smoothly while we pretend we’re the ones in charge.
Valentin appears from below deck, moving quietly so he doesn’t wake Summer. He’s carrying a bottle in one hand and two empty glasses in the other.
“I found something,” he says.
I look at the bottle. The label is familiar, a deep burgundy with gold lettering. Marchetti. The vintage from that estate in western Sicily.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“I called Lorenzo about it last month. He had a few bottles left from that vintage.” Valentin sets the glasses on the small table between our chairs. “I thought it might be appropriate.”
The last time we drank this wine was on a rooftop in Los Angeles, the October before we moved to Sicily.
Our last proper date before everything changed.
I wore a green dress that Valentin couldn’t stop looking at.
We talked about the future, about what life in Sicily might look like, about all the things we were going to do together once we were settled.
I was wrong about most of it. But I wasn’t wrong about wanting to try.
“That’s a good memory,” I say.
“One of my favorites.” He picks up the bottle and reaches for my glass. “Shall I pour?”
“Not for me today.”
He pauses, the bottle tilted but not yet pouring. Something shifts in his expression, a question he’s not quite asking.
“Just pour yours,” I say. “I’ll have some of that lemon soda Summer insisted we buy.”
He sets the bottle down and disappears below, returning a moment later with a can and a glass of ice. I pour it myself while he fills his own glass with wine.
“To April,” he says, lifting it.
“To April.”
He drinks. I drink. The soda is too sweet, the way all of Summer’s favorite things are too sweet, but I don’t mind.
“You told me about your father’s little boat that night,” I say. “You said you wanted to teach Summer to sail when she was older.”
“I remember. I wasn’t sure she’d like it.”
“She tried to give the skipper orders this morning. I think she likes it.”
He looks toward the wheel, smiling. “She asked if we could put her name beside mine in the log.”
“Did you?”
“She wrote it herself. Very large. There was almost no room left for the date.”
I can picture her concentrating on the letters, turning a page meant for departures and arrivals into evidence that she was here too.
He reaches over and takes my hand. His fingers are warm, slightly rough from the morning’s rope work. We sit like that for a while, watching the light shift across the bay.
“Someone mentioned my mother yesterday,” he says. “Another dinner in Milan. Apparently she’s making herself a new circle.”
“Does she still ask people to pass messages?”
“Sometimes. I tell them I won’t accept them.”
I nod. We have other things to talk about. Whatever Costanza makes of her life, she no longer gets to arrange ours.
Valentin sets his wine glass down beside my soda. The afternoon sun is warm on my shoulders, and I pull my notebook onto my lap without really meaning to work. Old habit. When I have a free moment, I reach for something to write on.
“You brought pages,” he says.
“I always bring pages.”
“We’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“I am relaxing. I finished the outline this morning. These are just notes for Monday.”
He makes a sound that might be skepticism but doesn’t argue. He’s learned that my version of relaxation sometimes involves a pen and paper. I’ve learned that his sometimes involves checking his phone for messages he’s already answered twice. We meet in the middle.
A breeze picks up across the deck, ruffling the pages in my lap. Before I can catch them, one lifts free and tumbles toward the railing. Valentin’s foot comes down on it just before it reaches the edge.
“Got it.”
“My hero.”
He bends to retrieve it, and I see his eyes move across the handwriting. His eyebrows rise.
“‘Leo stood in the doorway, his jaw carved from marble, his heart a fortress of regret.’“
“Give me that.”
“I didn’t know you were writing romance.”
“It’s not romance. It’s a character study. And that line is a placeholder.”
“A placeholder for what?”
“For something better. Which I would have written if someone hadn’t stolen my page.”
He holds it just out of reach, grinning. “His jaw carved from marble. That’s very specific.”
“It’s supposed to be dramatic.”
“It’s very dramatic.”
“Valentin.”
He relents, handing the page back with exaggerated care. “I like it. The marble jaw. The fortress heart. Very emotional.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“I’m appreciating your craft.”
“You’re mocking my craft.”
“Only a little.” He settles back in his chair, still smiling. “Is Leo based on anyone I know?”
“Leo is a fictional character in a story about a woman who inherits a restaurant. He’s the sous chef with a complicated past.”
“And a marble jaw.”
“And a marble jaw.” I tuck the page back into my notebook. “The jaw is staying. You’ve convinced me.”
“Happy to help.”
The breeze shifts again, cooler this time. I pull my scarf tighter around my shoulders. It’s a soft blue thing I’ve had for years, the edges starting to fray. Valentin reaches over and takes the loose end, tucking it beneath my elbow so it won’t blow away.
“Better?”
“Better.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket. I brush pastry crumbs from my knee while he checks it. He checks the screen, types a quick reply, and puts it away.
“The captain,” he says. “Confirming what time we want to head back.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That we’d let him know. There’s no rush.”
“No rush.”
He reaches into the basket beside his chair and pulls out one of the pastries we brought from the village this morning. Flaky, filled with almond cream, exactly the kind of thing Summer would demand if she were awake. He breaks it in half and offers me the larger piece.
“You always give me the bigger half.”
“You always notice.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re hungry.”
“Both.” I take the pastry and eat it slowly, watching the light on the water. “Do you remember last month, when we both forgot to buy milk?”
“We agreed never to speak of that again.”
“Summer was so disappointed.”
“She asked how two adults could forget milk. She said it like we’d failed a very basic test.”
“We had failed a very basic test.”
“In our defense, it was a busy week.”
“It was a Tuesday.”
He laughs, and I laugh with him, and I think about all the small failures we’ve accumulated over the past year. The forgotten milk. The scheduling conflicts. The time I double-booked myself and had to choose between Summer’s recital and a production meeting.
I still needed to send Rachel an apology. He still teased me for putting both events on the calendar without noticing. But we worked out who could be where, and no one had to pretend their plans didn’t matter.
“I have that filming offer,” I say. “The one in LA. Two weeks next month.”
“I remember.”
“I’m thinking about taking it.”
“You should. It’s a good part.”