They exchange looks before redirecting their attention to me in tandem. All this feels like bad acting, theatric. And it’s understandable with all this uncertainty looming over their beautiful life.
“Did Luca tell you he hired me?” I ask since we’re all together anyway—and if their marriage is the stuff that fairy tales are made of, there shouldn’t be any secrets.
Merritt sits her teacup on its saucer with a loud clink, nearly missing the center. “I’m sorry?”
“I start Monday.” I volunteer the next bit, as the cat seems to have Luca’s tongue as per usual. “Assistant manager.”
Her lips waver. “Is that true, Luca? I thought . . . I . . . I’m just . . . I’m . . . this is news to me.”
“Still waiting to get the official go-ahead from our accountant.” He lies to his wife in a way that feels oddly natural, as if he’s accustomed to placating her. And then he places his hand on her shoulder, though his attention is very much directed to me. I know this look. He isn’t pleased. “Was going to tell you tonight.”
“Mr. Coletto, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but you have a phone call on line two,” a petite auburn-haired server says with a wince. “It’s the lobster vendor.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve been waiting for that call. Ladies, enjoy your coffee.” He steals one final glimpse in my direction, letting it linger for a second too long. “Mer, I’ll see you at home.”
Without a response, her lips press flat, and she buries her expression with a sip of decaf coffee.
She isn’t pleased.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have blurted it like that . . . he told me it wasn’t official, but I was so excited . . . I guess I just assumed the two of you had already talked about it . . .”
Her fingers tremble around her cup.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
And I am sorry . . . I’m sorry she’s in the middle of this. It isn’t her fault she got the older, wiser, more successful version of the man I married. Some people are simply born lucky. I’d even go so far as to place her in the same category as Delphine with her generosity and sweet, trusting nature. She doesn’t deserve the strife. Fortunately my presence in her life is only temporary.
“I’m so sorry if I upset you,” I say.
“No need to apologize,” Merritt says, propping herself up and painting a subtle smile on her face. “Just caught off guard, is all. I’m sure he would’ve told me tonight.”
I take a drink. “Yes, of course. I’m sure he would’ve.”
Levi delivers our chocolate soufflés, which are admittedly amazing. Maybe the only item worth a damn on this whole menu.
We finish our afternoon treat with small talk, safe generic topics only. Topics so boring they could make the wallpaper peel.
“Have to say, I’m enjoying getting to know you, Lydia. More than I expected I would, given the circumstances,” she says, shepherding me to the exit when it’s over. I told her I wanted to walk home, to burn off these sugary calories and enjoy this rare sunny day we’re having. And I swear I spotted a hint of relief on her pretty face, as if she’d been waiting for the moment she could rid herself of my company and have a word with her husband.
Our husband.
“Same,” I say. “We should do this again soon.” I eye her belly. “Before you pop.”
She laughs, smoothing a hand along her bump. “Yes. Soon.”
I show myself out, but before I make it across the threshold, I catch her making a beeline for his office.
I’d kill to be a fly on that wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MERRITT
“Hey,” Luca says when I appear in his office doorway. He doesn’t glance away from his computer. Instead, he clacks at his keyboard and clicks his mouse, frowning at the monitor. “Shut the door, will you?”
It takes all the restraint I have not to slam it.
“You hired her?” I collapse into the guest chair across from his desk. “You told me we weren’t in a position to help her, and then you go and do this . . . behind my back? After berating me last night for a similar suggestion?”
“I thought about what you said, about helping her get on her feet so she’d move on.” He toys with a pen, his stare fixed on a framed family portrait on the corner of his desk. “And I think you’re right.”
I know I’m right. I’m always right.
Which also adds another level of concern to this entire situation, seeing as how my husband can’t keep his eyes off Lydia any time he’s in her presence. It’s as if he’s transfixed, besotted.
“So now we magically have money again?” I focus on the issue at hand.
His mouth forms a straight line. “No.”
“My God, Luca.” I rest my elbow on the ledge of the chair and bury my face in my hands. “We’re laying off staff. We’re in a hiring freeze. We’re—”
“I know.”
Earlier he insisted he was going to tell me tonight.
Now I’ll never know if that’s true.
When I spotted her dashing out of the restaurant earlier, my original plan was to wait it out, to see if he’d mention her little visit after he got home from work. But thinking about it got me too worked up, to the point that I couldn’t calm down. Racing and sweating and pacing all over the house. The way I saw it, I had two options: either suffer through it all day until my husband got home . . . or get ahead of the storm. Impatience got the best of me, and within minutes, I was texting Lydia about meeting up and calling Annette to have her watch Elsie for a couple of hours.
But out of all the bombshells, I wasn’t expecting that one. Never in a million years did I think he’d make a decision like that without at least running it by me first. It’s not like he’s buying her shoes—he’s giving her a job. At our only profitable restaurant. Which happens to house his main office, where he spends forty-plus hours a week.
He’s edging me out of this equation—why?
My middle tightens, a mild Braxton-Hicks contraction. Or maybe indigestion. It’s hard to tell this late in the game. I breathe through it, eyes shut tight, waiting for it to pass. Luca rises from his leather chair so quickly it hits the back wall, and he drops to my side.
“You okay?” he asks.
I miss this side of him—the attentive, doting husband.
The contraction subsides, but I breathe a little harder and shut my eyes a little tighter. I need his sympathy. I deserve his concern. It’s the least he can do after this shit show of a day.
Taking my hand, he lifts it to his lips and deposits a distraction in the form of a kiss.
“Go. Rest,” he says. “Put your feet up. I’ll be home soon.”
He helps me out of the guest chair and escorts me all the way to my car. Either he’s being a gentleman to make up for his actions . . . or he wants to guarantee I leave the premises.
I drive home, half-blinded by tears that fall far too easily these days.
Hormonal or not, I know one thing: I’m losing him.
Piece by piece, day by day, lie by lie.
Everything I do is for Luca, for our marriage, for our children, for our life, for our future. Anything I’ve ever kept from him has been for his own good.