7. Lucille
— ? —
Lucille
Three days before our anniversary, I make a decision.
I’m going to fight.
Not the way I’ve been fighting, quietly, passively, waiting for Hugo to notice me while I shrink into the corners of my own life. I’m going to fight the way my mother would have fought, with her whole heart on the table and nothing held back.
One night, one dinner.
Just one last chance to see if there’s anything left worth saving.
If Hugo shows up, really shows up, not just physically but with his full attention, his whole self, then maybe we have a foundation to rebuild on. Maybe the distance of the past months can be bridged. Maybe I haven’t been a fool to keep hoping.
And if he doesn’t show up, then I’ll have my answer.
At least this way I’ll know I tried everything.
The preparation takes all three days.
I start with the menu, pulling out my mother’s recipe box from the back of my closet where I’ve kept it since she died.
The cards are stained and soft from years of handling, her handwriting fading but still legible, the careful script of a woman who believed that cooking for someone was a form of love.
Hugo’s favorite is coq au vin. He mentioned it once, early in our marriage, when I asked what comfort food meant to him. His grandmother used to make it when he visited as a child, the only warm presence in a family that ran cold. He said the smell of wine and thyme still made him feel safe.
My mother had her own version in that box, in her fading handwriting, and something about that feels right, like both of the women who taught us what love looks like are here in the kitchen with me tonight.
I’ve never made it for him. I’ve never made much of anything for him, we have a housekeeper who handles meals, and the few times I’ve cooked, it’s been quick things, functional rather than meaningful.
This time will be different.
I spend a day tracking down the right ingredients: the good burgundy, the fresh herbs, the pearl onions that require patient peeling.
I practice the recipe twice to make sure I can get it right, filling the kitchen with rich, wine-dark smells that make the house feel more like a home than it has in months.
I pull out the wedding china. We’ve never used it, it’s been sitting in the cabinet since we registered for it, pristine and untouched, waiting for an occasion that never came.
I wash each piece by hand, the delicate porcelain cool against my fingers, and I set the table with the kind of care I’d give a client’s most important commission.
Real crystal glasses. Candles in the silver holders that belonged to Hugo’s grandmother. Fresh flowers, white roses and eucalyptus, arranged in a low centerpiece that won’t block our view of each other.
I want him to see me. I want there to be nothing between us but the table and the truth.
And then there’s the dress.
I’ve been designing it in stolen moments for weeks, working on it late at night when I couldn’t sleep, channeling all my anxiety and hope into fabric and thread.
It’s midnight blue silk, not the almost-black of formal events but the true deep blue of a sky just after sunset, that liminal moment between day and night when anything feels possible.
The cut is simple but perfect, skimming my curves without clinging, dipping low in the back in a way that feels intimate rather than provocative. I’ve sewn tiny seed pearls along the neckline by hand, hundreds of them, each one a small act of faith.
It’s the first thing I’ve made for my own body in years. The first time I’ve treated myself as someone worth dressing.
When I try it on the day before our anniversary, I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.
She looks hopeful. She looks brave.
She looks like someone who deserves to be fought for.
I text Hugo that evening, keeping the message simple: Tomorrow night. Dinner at home. Just us. Please be there.
His response comes twenty minutes later: I’ll be there. I promise.
I read those words over and over, trying to decide if I believe them.
I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.
***
Alice comes over the day of to help me get ready.
“You’re going all out,” she says, watching me curl my hair in the bathroom mirror. “I haven’t seen you this invested in anything since your thesis collection.”
“That’s because I haven’t been this invested in anything since my thesis collection.”
“And if he doesn’t show up?”
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Then at least I’ll know I did everything I could.”
Alice nods slowly, her expression unreadable. She’s been quiet about Hugo lately, holding back the criticism I know she wants to voice, giving me space to make my own choices. I appreciate it more than I can say.
“Here,” she says, taking the curling iron from my hand. “Let me. You’re going to burn yourself.”
I sit on the bathroom stool and let her work, watching her deft fingers section my hair and wrap it around the barrel. She’s always been better at this than me, the practical applications of beauty, the small rituals of femininity that my mother died before she could teach me.
“You look like a bride,” Alice says softly when she’s finished.
I turn to look at myself. The dark hair swept up and away from my face, a few curls loose around my temples. The subtle makeup that makes my eyes look larger, more luminous. The midnight-blue dress that fits like it was made for me, because it was.
“A bride who’s actually happy this time,” Alice adds.
“Ask me again in twelve hours.”
She laughs, but there’s an edge to it.
“I’m serious, Lu. Whatever happens tonight, whatever he does or doesn’t do, you need to know that you’re worth more than this. Worth more than waiting and hoping and planning perfect dinners for a man who might not deserve them.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I don’t answer, because I’m not sure. I’ve spent so long making myself small for Hugo, accommodating his schedule and his moods and his endless obligations, that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to take up space. To demand rather than request. To expect rather than hope.
Maybe tonight will remind me.
Or maybe tonight will break me completely.
Either way, at least I’ll know.
***
Six o’clock. The coq au vin is simmering on the stove, filling the house with the smell of wine and herbs and love.
I light the candles. Pour myself a glass of champagne, the good stuff, the bottle we were given at our wedding and never opened. The table looks like a spread from a magazine, if magazines featured desperate wives making one last stand for their marriages.
I check my phone. No messages from Hugo since this morning.
That’s fine. He’s probably just busy. He said he’d be here.
Six-thirty. I touch up my lipstick. Rearrange the flowers. Check the food.
Still no messages.
Seven o’clock. The time we agreed on.
The front door doesn’t open.
I sit down at the table, then stand up again, too restless to be still. I walk to the window and look out at the empty driveway, then walk back to the kitchen and stir the coq au vin even though it doesn’t need stirring.
He’s just running late. Traffic, probably. Or a last-minute call. He’ll be here.
He promised.
Seven-fifteen. My phone buzzes.
Running late. The label pulled me into a last-minute thing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
I read the message three times, trying to decide how to feel. Relief that he texted. Frustration that he’s late. Fear that “as soon as I can” might mean never.
I text back: How late?
His response: An hour, maybe less. I’m so sorry, Lucille. I’m trying to get out of here.
An hour. The food will be overdone by then, but I can adjust. I can work with an hour.
I turn off the stove and cover everything to keep it warm. I blow out half the candles so they don’t burn down before he arrives. I sit on the couch with my champagne and I wait.
Seven-thirty.
Seven-forty-five.
Eight o’clock.
My phone buzzes again.
The publicist ambushed me with an urgent situation. I’m handling it. Please don’t give up on me.
Don’t give up on me.
The words should make me feel hope, maybe, or reassurance. Instead, they land with a hollow thud in my chest, coins dropping into an empty well.
How many times has he asked me not to give up? How many times have I kept waiting, kept hoping, kept believing that this time would be different?
I text back: What kind of urgent?
No response.
Eight-fifteen. I relight the candles because sitting in the dim feels too much like giving up.
Eight-thirty. The food is definitely overcooked now. The sauce has reduced too far, the meat gone tender past the point of perfection. I don’t bother checking it again.
Eight-forty-five. My champagne glass is empty. I don’t pour another.
Instead, I turn on the television.
I’m not sure why. Maybe I need noise to fill the silence. Maybe I need distraction from the slow, creeping realization that he’s not coming. Maybe some masochistic part of me already knows what I’m going to find.
The channel is set to one of the entertainment networks, the kind that runs celebrity interviews and red carpet coverage and all the glittering detritus of fame. I’m about to change it when a familiar face fills the screen.
Hugo.
He’s sitting on a stage, studio lights making his hair gleam, wearing the charcoal suit jacket I altered for him last month. He’s smiling, that careful, polished smile he uses for cameras, and he’s not alone.
Ginny Davies is beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. Her red hair is artfully styled, her dress a cream color that photographs beautifully, and she’s looking at him with an expression of warm, intimate familiarity.
The caption at the bottom of the screen reads: LIVE: Hugo Kensington and Ginny Davies discuss their creative reunion
Live.
He’s doing an interview right now. On our anniversary. While I sit at home in a dress I made for him, surrounded by food I cooked for him, waiting for a promise he never intended to keep.
I should turn it off. I should walk away, protect myself, refuse to watch whatever this is.