There’s no reason on God’s green earth that she would be here—if she can’t afford dollar-store tennis shoes, I can’t imagine any scenario where she’d be dropping thirty bucks on a salad. And after Luca went off on me yesterday about being too generous, I doubt he invited her here for a comped meal.
Then again, he hasn’t been himself lately.
I don’t know that I’m qualified to know what he would or wouldn’t do these days.
I bite my thumbnail, tasting salt, too preoccupied to be disgusted with myself.
Did Luca put that ridiculous smile on her face?
“Go see Daddy?” Elsie asks from her car seat, pointing to the white exterior of our beloved namesake restaurant. This is the one that started it all, that launched us to the moon and helped fund our other restaurant babies.
This place is special.
Sacred.
Raffi croons over the speakers. “Robin in the Rain.” It’s an unusually sunny February afternoon, and I thought we’d surprise Luca with a quick visit while we were out running errands. I figured seeing his wife and daughter might lift his spirits.
Guess I thought wrong . . .
“Not today, sweet pea.” My voice breaks as I push the gear shifter into drive. “Daddy’s busy. We’ll see him tonight.”
I exit the parking lot at the rear, managing to avoid Lydia as well as the window from Luca’s office.
Heading home, I hold the wheel at a perfect ten and two, knuckles glossy white as my daughter sings and bops in the back seat, blissfully unaware of the raging inferno about to threaten this perfect life of ours.
Two miles down the road, I get held up at a train crossing. The black-and-yellow engine, with its aggressive blaring horn, pulls a never-ending line of graffiti-covered cargo. With nothing but time on my hands, I grab my phone from the charger and text my husband a simple note to ask how his day’s going.
He reads it immediately.
He doesn’t respond.
If it were any other day and I hadn’t seen Lydia traipsing out of our restaurant, I’d assume he was held up at work. I wouldn’t give it a second thought. I wouldn’t torture myself with ominous worries about him trying to craft the perfect nonchalant response to cover whatever the hell he’s doing behind my back.
Bile burns the back of my throat at the thought of Luca and Lydia having conversations without me—conversations that will affect our future.
The train clears the tracks, and the crossing arms lift. While Elsie sings along to a song about a peanut butter sandwich, the words “imbecile,” “fool,” and “naive” dance around in my head.
I’m just as much a part of this as he is.
We’re a team.
What affects him affects me, too.
I pull into the garage ten minutes later, kill the engine, and sit paralyzed with thoughts until our unborn son kicks inside me. Luca should be home in four hours, which means I have two hundred and forty minutes to compose myself, to ensure that the moment he walks in the door tonight I won’t say something I can never take back.
I’m hormonal, he’s under an enormous amount of pressure at work, and the situation with Lydia is growing stranger by the moment.
This house of cards is one gust of wind from toppling over, and I don’t want to be that gust.
CHAPTER TWENTY
LYDIA
“So I was thinking,” Delphine says as I tend to the angel card rack with a feather duster. I’m not technically employed at The Blessed Alchemist, but her errands list for me today was slim, and I felt like being useful in any capacity was better than sitting around her apartment like some squatter. “How would next Wednesday work for the vital records office?”
I swallow, my back toward her as I remove the stack of Archangel Gabriel cards from their holder. This is the third time she’s brought up the records office in the last twenty-four hours alone. She’s not going to drop it.
“Actually, you know my friends the Colettos?” I keep my voice cordial. “They offered me a job at one of their restaurants, and I accepted it earlier today. They want me to start Monday. I’d hate to ask for time off the first week, you know? Once I get settled, we can figure out the perfect time to take care of that.”
“Angel, that’s wonderful.” I turn and find Delphine dancing on her toes, clapping her hands together, like my luck is her luck.
That or she’s relieved that she no longer has to offer me a job—perhaps she was having second thoughts.
“You know, you’re still welcome to work for me, too,” she says, tamping down her excitement and putting on her businesswoman hat.
“He’s willing to pay me under the table until everything gets sorted out,” I say. “As a personal favor. I don’t want to put you in that position . . .”
“Of course, of course.” She tugs at the moldavite piece hanging from her slender neck. “Just wanted you to know my offer still stands if it doesn’t work out for some reason.”
Lately she’s been going above and beyond for me. Just last night, she asked me my favorite meal—chicken potpie—and then cooked it from scratch. I’d have been happy with the ninety-nine-cent microwave version, but she ran to the store and came back with bags of ingredients and spent an hour assembling everything while telling me about the time Amber made jambalaya simply because she loved the word and almost burned the kitchen down.
Just this morning, she invited me to join her for sunrise yoga and patiently taught me eight beginner positions. I can’t think of a single instance in my childhood when my mom taught me anything. In the short time I’ve known this woman, she’s done more for me than my own mother did in the eighteen years we shared together. I have nothing to give Delphine in return except for my companionship.
And I’d hardly call that even stephen.
I finish the angel card rack when my phone buzzes in my back pocket—a sensation that sends a shock to my chest because I’m still not quite used to it. Flipping it open, I’m greeted with a text from Merritt, asking if I’m free to get together this afternoon.
I text back, asking her to name the time and the place.
A few minutes later, she writes back, Pick you up at 3!
“I was thinking maybe coffee and dessert at one of our restaurants?” Merritt says when I climb inside her car that afternoon. “We’ve got the best cinnamon chocolate soufflé at sea bats.”
“Sea bats?” I ask, not understanding.
“Sorry.” She chuckles, sweeping a glossy wave off her shoulder. “That’s what we call our flagship—Coletto’s by the Sea. C.B.T.S. Anyway, you’re going to love it, I promise.”
Shit.
She coasts us through a green light, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel to some Hall and Oates song, and all I can think about is what if the hostess recognizes me from earlier today? What if we get the same server? Safe to say Luca hasn’t told her about the job yet, or she wouldn’t be so giddy about introducing me to their flagship restaurant. This has the potential to get awkward.
I’m baking alive in this puffy white coat, so I undo the zipper and gather a lungful of new car scent.
“Isn’t that your nicest one?” I ask. “I’d be fine with just going to a regular coffee shop . . .”