Luca strolls up to me, cool and steady, and cups my bare face in his hands. For a second, he looks at me the way he used to—like I was the prettiest, most splendid thing he’d ever seen in his life. The fact that I’m sporting unwashed hair and smell like spit-up makes me wonder if he was acting all those times before. I couldn’t be more opposite of splendid.
“He has his mother—that’s all he needs,” Luca says, voice as smooth as velvet. “Fresh air and a change of scenery could be good for us all, don’t you think?”
I study his face.
“Did something happen?” I swallow. “With Lydia?”
“No.” His brows angle. “Nothing happened. But I don’t think a precaution would be the worst thing we could do.”
“You think she’s going to do something to us? To the baby?” I ask. “I texted her last week, told her we’d had the baby. I was trying to be friendly. I mean, I thought we were friends. She still hasn’t texted back. Maybe it set her off?”
“Mer.” He captures my hands in his. “Slow down. Calm down. Don’t jump to conclusions. Like I said, change of scenery. Fresh air. And a little distance from everything going on. I think it’d be good for us.”
The farmhouse in the summertime is a sight for sore eyes. Surrounded by ancient leafy oaks, accented with a docked fishing pond, and neighboring a pasture filled with dappled Appaloosas, it’s a country lover’s paradise. But this time of year, it’s brown and bleak as far as the eye can see.
“We can start with a few days and go from there,” he says. “I told sea bats I’d be gone for two weeks. They’ll be fine without me.”
“You trust Lydia there?” A getaway with a newborn isn’t conventional, but fresh air . . . and distance . . . might be exactly what we need to turn this ship around. All we need is a bassinet and the basics—bottles, blankets, diapers. Anything we forget, we can get at the store in town.
“She sits in an office all day messing around on an old computer I set up,” he says with a smirk. “There’s nothing she can do. I put the head chef in charge. He’ll call me if anything comes up.”
Leaning in, he presses a tender kiss against my chapped lips, lingering longer than he has in forever.
“Go lie down.” He escorts me to our room, his hand on the small of my back. “We can pack after you’ve had some rest, and we’ll leave tonight.”
I’m not sure I have the energy to pack, but I’ll scrape it from the depths of my wearied soul if I have to.
He’s coming back to me—fragment by fragment. There’s life in his voice again. An extra beat of energy in his step.
This is the man I know.
This is the man I love.
He never left; he was just buried under a mountain of stress.
Luca helps me settle into bed before pulling the shades. The room is dark, but not enough to block out all the daylight. My frenzied mind conjures up list after list of all the things I’ll need to pack, not just for the baby, but for Elsie, myself, and Luca, too. I always pack for him. If I don’t, he’ll end up forgetting underwear or toothpaste.
My husband is a big-picture guy.
I’m better at remembering the little things.
My incision pulses with a red-hot pain that dulls to a subtle ache. I’m supposed to go in for a follow-up later this week so they can remove the staples, but I’m sure there’s a doctor in Willow Branch who can squeeze me in. Whatever we have to do, we’ll make this work.
I stare at the lifeless ceiling fan until I can’t take it any longer. Hauling myself out of bed, I shuffle to the walk-in closet, grab our luggage, and start packing for our little adventure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LYDIA
“Can I help you?” A college-aged receptionist greets me in the front of the Brian Hoffmeier Insurance Agency in downtown Bent Creek Monday afternoon.
Canned music pipes from speakers in the ceiling, and the chairs in the waiting room make my back hurt just looking at them. A fake potted tree, magazine rack, and water cooler complete the look.
“Hi.” I step closer to her, shoving my manila packet under my arm and tucking my hands in my pockets to hide their fidgeting. “Is Brian available?”
“Do you have an appointment?” She cradles the reception phone on her shoulder.
“No, actually. I was just hoping I could have a minute of his time?”
Her round eyes drag the length of me. She’s probably wondering if I’m selling something—magazine subscriptions or religion or something. This town is full of those types.
“I have some questions about a life insurance policy he sold.” I wave the packet. “I’ll be superquick, I promise.”
Her overplucked brows meet and she double-clicks her computer mouse, squinting at the screen. “His next appointment should be here any minute . . .”
“Two minutes,” I say with a friendly smile.
She tucks a strand of bleached-blonde hair behind one ear before punching in a couple of numbers and mumbling something into the phone.
“He’ll be out in a sec,” she says. “Feel free to have a seat.”
Five minutes later, a fortysomething man with a garage-gym body and thinning silver hair steps into the waiting area, rubbing his hands together like a coach about to go over a football play.
“You must be the young lady with the quick question?” he asks with a wholesome chuckle. A gold cross necklace hangs from his neck, peeking out from his insurance-logo’d polo. “Come on back. I’ve only got a few minutes, but let’s see what we can do for you.”
He closes the office door behind us and folds himself into his desk chair while I pull the declaration pages out of my envelope, ensuring I don’t spill any cash in the process.
Glancing over the top page, he chews the inside of his lip. “This looks like an old policy . . . yeah . . . this one expired about seven, eight years ago. At least according to this declaration page.”
“Was it cashed out?” I ask despite knowing the answer.
“I’m afraid I can only disclose that to the policy holder.” He leans over the page again. “Luca Coletto. Ah, yes. I know Mr. Coletto. Nice man.”
Hardly.
“Sorry to hear about his first wife. What a tragedy,” he adds.
I don’t tell him he’s looking at her.
“So can anyone get a two-million-dollar life insurance policy on someone else?” I ask.
His hands fold into a temple near his lips as he studies me. “In theory, yes. Certain underwriters require specific thresholds or have different requirements. For instance, someone making twenty grand a year can’t go out and get a five-million-dollar policy. Too big of a spread. Tends to be a red flag—especially if it’s not someone’s spouse or domestic partner. Of course there are always exceptions. Just depends on the company. Open market varies quite a bit. Always changing.”
“So wouldn’t a two-million-dollar policy on a small-town waitress be a red flag?” I ask.
“Could be,” he says. “Depends on the other factors. If they’re married, some insurers will disregard that.”
“What if they’ve only been married a short time?” I ask.