4. Cat #2
“Because you mention him when you play. Little comments like ‘Grandfather would have seen that’ or ‘that’s a Morphy opening, my grandfather hated Morphy.’ I want to know who taught you to think like this.”
I move my own pawn, considering. “His name was Alessandro. He left Italy before the feud between our families began, came to New York with nothing, built a life. Chess was the only thing he brought with him that mattered.”
“Did he compete? After he came here?”
“For a while. He won some tournaments, made a small name for himself. Then he met my grandmother and decided he’d rather be happy than famous.” I castle early, watching Max’s face. “He said chess players make terrible husbands. Too much time in their own heads.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“I think anyone can make a terrible husband if they try hard enough. Chess is optional.”
He laughs, low and warm. “Your grandfather sounds like a wise man.”
“He was. He died when I was sixteen, and I still hear his voice every time I play. ‘Caterina, you’re thinking too small. See the whole board. See what’s coming.’” I take his knight with my bishop, a move he should have seen three turns ago. “He would have liked playing you.”
“Would he?”
“He appreciated stubbornness. Said the best opponents were the ones who refused to accept they were beaten.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s a warning. He’d have taken your queen by now. You’re down a knight and you’re still smiling.”
“I’m learning.” He moves his queen, better this time, actually defensive. “I told you. I want to understand how you think.”
“You’ve said that every night this week.”
“And I’ll say it until you believe it.”
Night eight, he nearly beats me.
“Your knight is vulnerable,” I tell him, but my voice has lost its certainty.
“My knight is exactly where I want him.”
“Your knight has two moves before I fork your rook and bishop.”
“Maybe that’s my plan. Sacrifice the knight, open the file, pressure your king.”
“That’s… actually not terrible.”
He leans in over the board, sleeves shoved up, the cold don-of-the-Moretti-family thing nowhere in sight.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m impressed.”
“High praise from the woman who called my queen suicidal three days ago.”
“Your queen was suicidal. This knight has a purpose.” I take the knight anyway, and he does get the file, and for twelve moves I’m actually on defense. My heart beats faster. This is what chess is supposed to feel like, not easy victory, but actual challenge.
“You’re learning,” I admit.
“I told you.” He grins, and it transforms his face. “I’m a quick study when I care about the subject.”
“And you care about chess?”
“I care about understanding you. Chess is the method.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I move my rook and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.
Two nights later, he tries to move a bishop through his own pawn and calls it innovation. I send it back. He is grinning before I finish explaining why. I begin to suspect he enjoys being corrected almost as much as he enjoys the game.
Night twelve, we play for three hours without speaking more than necessary.
Move and countermove. Attack and defense. I’m ahead, then he’s ahead, then we’re locked in a position so complex I have to actually stop and think.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says eventually.
“I’m concentrating.”
“You’ve been concentrating for forty minutes. Usually you talk while you concentrate. It’s distracting.”
“You find my talking distracting?”
“I find everything about you distracting. The talking is just the most obvious part.” He moves his rook. “You’re also tapping your finger on the desk. And your mouth does this thing when you’re planning something.”
“What thing?”
“This slight curl at the corner. Like you’re trying not to smile.”
“I’m not trying not to smile. I’m trying to figure out if your rook move is genius or insanity.”
I catch the almost-smile before he can smother it, and add it to the growing evidence that Massimo Moretti is not the man I married.
“Which have you decided?”
“Insanity. But confident insanity, which is almost as good as genius.”
“I’ll take almost.”
I move my queen, and his expression shifts, that flicker of recognition when someone sees a trap too late.
“Ah,” he says.
“Ah indeed.”
“I didn’t see that.”
“I know.”
“How many moves?”
“Four. Maybe five if you’re creative, but you’ll still lose.”
He studies the board, verifying, and then sits back with a sigh that sounds almost content. “You’re extraordinary at this.”
“I’ve had good teachers.”
“Your grandfather?”
“And you.” I gesture at the board. “You’re a better opponent than you were two weeks ago. More patient. Less aggressive. You’re actually thinking now instead of just attacking.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.” I pause. “But yes. It’s also a compliment.”
He smiles, that real smile, the one that changes his whole face. “I’ll take it. Same time tomorrow?”
“Bring better whiskey and we’ll see.”
Those weeks aren’t all chess. Around the second week in the brace, I catch a cold and hide in my room.
The knock comes at three in the afternoon.
“Who is it?”
“Room service.”
I open the door. Max is holding a tray, Earl Grey, honey, lemon, aspirin, good tissues.
“How did you know I was sick?”
“You sneezed four times during chess and pretended it was allergies.”
“It could have been allergies.”
“In January?”
“I’m allergic to January.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” He sets the tray down. “Tea. Aspirin. Rest.”
“You don’t have to take care of me. The staff can-”
“The staff doesn’t know you take your tea with exactly one spoon of honey and a quarter slice of lemon, no more.
The staff doesn’t know you hate the tissues with lotion because they make your nose feel weird.
The staff doesn’t know you’d rather have aspirin than cold medicine because cold medicine makes you drowsy and you hate being drowsy. ”
I stare at him. “How do you know all that?”
“I pay attention.”
“To my tissue preferences?”
“To everything.” He straightens the items on the tray, the cup handle angled toward me, the aspirin bottle label facing out.
“The first week we were married, you complained about the tissues in the guest bathroom. You said they felt like someone had sneezed lotion onto your face. I had the staff replace every box in the house.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You weren’t supposed to notice. That was the point.” He moves toward the door, then pauses. “The tea thing I learned during the chess games. You always make a face when there’s too much lemon. Like someone personally offended you with citrus.”
“Excessive lemon is personally offensive. It overwhelms the bergamot.”
“I don’t know what bergamot is.”
“It’s the thing that makes Earl Grey taste like Earl Grey instead of just hot leaf water.”
He watches me perform outrage over a teacup with the delighted focus of a man discovering a new hobby.
“Hot leaf water. That’s what you think of tea?”
“That’s what bad tea is. Good tea is a religious experience. Bad tea is a waste of everyone’s time.”
“And mine is…?”
“Pending evaluation.” I pick up the cup, sniff it, take a cautious sip. The honey blooms across my tongue, perfectly balanced. The lemon is there but restrained. The bergamot sings. “Okay. This is acceptable.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I’m sick and my standards are compromised.”
“Noted. I’ll make you tea when you’re healthy and see if it still passes muster.”
He tucks the blanket tighter around me, brisk, like caretaking is one more logistics problem to solve.
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both. Get some rest. Chess when you’re feeling better.”
“Max.”
He turns.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” A pause. “Feel better, Caterina. The games aren’t the same when you’re not there to win them.”
The tea is perfect.
Three days later, I’m almost recovered, and he shows up with soup.
“I can feed myself now,” I say, but I take the bowl anyway.
“I know you can. I wanted to see you.”
“You saw me an hour ago.”
“That was chess. This is soup. Different contexts.”
“Is there a meaningful difference between chess and soup contexts?”
“In chess, I’m trying to beat you and failing. In soup, I’m trying to make sure you eat and succeeding. The success rate is much better in soup context.”
I laugh, which turns into a cough, which makes him frown with concern.
“You’re not better yet.”
“I’m almost better. Don’t hover.”
“I’m not hovering. I’m supervising your recovery.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s adjacent.” He sits in the chair by my bed like he belongs there. “Eat your soup. Tell me about your grandmother’s farm.”
“What?”
“You mentioned it once. Your grandmother’s farm, upstate. You said it was your favorite place as a child.”
“I don’t remember mentioning that.”
“Early on, just after the wedding. You were complaining about the city noise and said you missed waking up to birdsong. I asked where you heard birdsong, and you said ‘my grandmother’s farm, before everything went wrong.’” He shrugs. “I remembered.”
“You remembered one sentence from a conversation weeks ago.”
“I remember everything you say. It’s a habit.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I eat my soup and pretend my chest doesn’t feel tight.
The night I really tell him about the farm, we’re sprawled on his study rug after our longest match yet.
A draw.
Neither of us could find a way through. He’d adapted so completely to my style that every attack I launched, he anticipated.
Every trap I set, he sidestepped. And when we finally ran out of moves that mattered, we stared at a board locked in perpetual check, neither king falling, neither player winning.
“Best game I’ve ever played,” I say, staring at the ceiling.
“A draw. I’ll take it.”
“You should. That’s the closest anyone’s come to beating me in years.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Annoyed. Impressed. Slightly turned on, if I’m being honest.”
He laughs, surprised. “A draw is an aphrodisiac for you?”