“Could you bring the bassinet in from the car and put it in the master?” I shouldn’t call it a master bedroom. It’s simply the biggest of the three rooms upstairs. There’s no en suite, no walk-in closet. It’s hardly spacious enough for a queen-sized bed, two nightstands, and a chest of drawers. But while it may not have a million-dollar view, we can see the pond and the big red barn from our windows. The summer sunrises here are a sight for sore eyes.
Without a word, Luca heads outside with careful steps so as not to wake Everett, and I settle into the chair, brushing my cheek against its soft, aging microfiber before closing my eyes.
I couldn’t sleep on the drive here. Too much excitement, perhaps? The forecast for this week is bleak and chilly, but it’s supposed to warm up next Saturday. I picture myself rocking the baby on the wraparound porch next weekend while Elsie and her father run around in the yard. Coats and gloves and a million blankets, of course, but carefree smiles all around.
And not a care in the world.
I jerk myself awake—with no idea how long I’ve been out. I don’t even remember falling asleep. Sitting up, I check on Everett in the car seat . . . but he’s gone. Luca must have taken him to bed. A blanket falls from my lap when I push myself up—yet another thoughtful Luca move.
We haven’t spent a single night in this house, but already things are looking up.
By the time I make my way upstairs, the burning ache along my lower abdomen reminds me I’m due for another pain pill—but I don’t have the energy to trudge downstairs, nor do I want to wake my husband, so I suffer through it. Besides, Everett should be up soon for another feeding.
I use these still, quiet minutes to watch my husband dream with the most peaceful expression painted on his handsome face. With heavy eyelids and a weary half smile on my lips, I succumb to a wave of blissful exhaustion and allow my body—and mind—to rest.
Lord knows I need it.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, the card didn’t go through. Is there another you can try?” the chipper young grocery associate informs me from the other end of the phone the next morning. I’d called the Willow Branch Market, played the sleep-deprived-new-mother card with the store manager, and arranged for them to shop my order and have it ready for Luca to pick up within the hour.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Try it again.”
Silence. Then a jarring electronic beep.
“If you want, we can try another card?” he asks.
“Are your machines down?” Internet in rural Oregon can be shoddy.
He clears his throat. “No, ma’am.”
Swiping my purse off the counter, I rummage for my wallet, pulling out a black Visa and rattling off the numbers.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. This one was declined,” he says after an endless minute.
“There’s got to be some kind of mistake.” Last I checked there were thousands of dollars in my personal checking account. And the Visa has an exceedingly high limit, given our status as preferred customers.
“The first one just said transaction failed, but this last one actually said declined,” he says. “Maybe we can try a different card?”
I pitch the black Visa across the counter and grab a bright-orange Discover from a side pocket. It’s for emergencies only, and I can’t remember the last time I used this one. In fact, I don’t even think Luca knows I have it.
“Okay,” he says, his voice perkier than a minute ago. “That one went through. We should have your order ready for pickup by eight thirty.”
I thank the poor kid and end the call. Hunched over the counter, I retrieve the pieces of plastic I’d thrown in a fit of frustration and call the numbers on the back to check the balances.
“Your checking account balance is . . . zero . . . dollars,” a computerized voice tells me. Heat creeps up my skin when I hang up and call Visa. A minute later, their system tells me I’m eight dollars and twenty-two cents over my limit, and that the last five transactions were cash withdrawals in thousand-dollar chunks.
Have we been hacked?
Is Lydia behind this?
Or is our financial situation worse than I’ve been told, and Luca’s scraping the bottom of every barrel we have?
My lower stomach stings with each step as I march to the living room, where my husband and babies are spread out on a blanket, surrounded by soft books, stuffed animals, and plastic blocks.
“You okay?” His thick brows lift when he spots me bracing myself against the doorway.
Swallowing a painful breath, I unclench my jaw. “I’m tired of being in the dark. It ends now.”
His dark eyes track me, and he pushes himself up from the blanket, laughing almost. “What?”
I speak through gritted teeth. “Tell me everything.”
“What are you talking about?” His hands rest on his hips, cool and casual. Insulting. “Tell you what exactly?”
“All the things you’re not telling me,” I elaborate. “I want to know. Money, Lydia . . . like I said—everything.”
I follow him to the foyer.
“Things aren’t good,” he says, pacing.
I’ve half a mind to grab him by the shoulders and nail him to the wall until he stops moving. All this back and forth is dizzying.
“Heard back from the last buyer a few days ago.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “They passed. All of them did.”
“What? When were you going to tell me this?”
He frowns. “Not while you were in the hospital . . .”
“Why’d they pass?” The sting of rejection is personal with this one. While the restaurants were a joint effort, I’m the one who chose every menu item, the fabric on the drapes, the light fixtures, the music. The entire experience—from the moment a diner walks in to the second they return to the parking lot, belly swollen with unforgettable cuisine and veins flooded with top-shelf liquor—was all me. Luca handled everything else. Loans, accounting, hiring. The less inspiring aspects of running a business.
The fact that not one, not two, but three firms passed on the buyout is a slap in the face.
“We’re in a risk-averse market right now,” Luca says. Though I don’t even know if he comprehends what that means. He simply married an ambitious woman and did everything in his power to make her dreams come true—and he may have picked up an impressive phrase or two along the way. We both know I was always the brains in this operation.
“So what now?”
He stares at the wall behind me, his knuckles rapping on his thigh. “We fold.”
This is the bottom dropping out. I thought it’d hit harder, but so far it feels like nothing—a dark void of numbness.
“What else?” I cross my arms and will him to look at me, but like a stubborn mule, the bastard refuses. “What else have you been keeping from me?”
He sniffs. “There’s nothing more I can tell you that you don’t already know.”
“Come on. We both know that’s a lie.”
I turn and head to the hallway. I don’t want to fight within earshot of my children. Oblivious or not, it’s not the kind of precedent I want to set for this family.
“I’m done pretending,” I say. “I’m done playing the role of your ignorant, dutiful wife. And I’m done biting my tongue when what I should be doing is asking you the one question that’s been on my mind since the moment that woman showed up at our door.”