“And you’ll not ever put one foot in this office, ever again. Is that clear?”
My jaw drops. “What? This is myjob. I’ve put hours of work into the—”
“Too bad,” he cuts me off. “The terms aren’t up for negotiation, Francesca.”
Taking a deep breath, I try to start over, this time more calmly. “I understand what you’re saying, Dante. But I’ve made real connections with our vendors, and—”
“My vendors. You’re no longer a Bellanti, and you’re not a part of this business. Going forward you’ll complete only the tasks I assign you, and nothing more.”
I open my mouth to negotiate, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“I’ll have all your things removed from the main house by eight p.m. And for God’s sake, go clean yourself up. You have a shift in the tasting room. Which will be yourlastshift.”
I can’t breathe.
He waves his hand pointedly toward the door, not even sparing me a glance.
“Now get out.”
4
Frankie
What a pathetically smalllife I have.
Later that day, I supervise the movers bringing my boxes into the guesthouse. Honestly, there’s hardly anything for them to carry in. I have them stack all the boxes in the living room for me to sort through on my own. Pretty much everything I’d hurriedly packed up after I finished with my shift in the tasting room was purchased with Dante’s money. Clothes, shoes, accessories, makeup, and miscellaneous toiletries. My fluffy bathrobes. And…that’s pretty much it. None of it is all that meaningful; none of it can comfort me in my solitude. I never imagined the sum of my life could fit into a handful of cardboard containers, but here we are.
I only needed a single box to hold the things I came into the marriage with. I have the movers place it in the bedroom. It makes me feel better to have my things separate from everything else that has the Bellanti stink all over it.
Once the movers are gone, I’m left alone to sort through my possessions. It doesn’t even take an hour to put it all away, but I’m exhausted by the time I finish. The unfamiliarity and emptiness of the guesthouse is draining. It takes mental energy to immerse yourself in a new space, to get to know it and let yourself become a part of it. And I don’t even know how long this place will be my residence, which drains me even more. What sense is there in expending energy trying to acclimate to a new place that will probably be temporary? I had just started to truly get my bearings inside the Bellanti house, and look where that got me.
I slowly walk through the guesthouse with my arms tightly crossed. Admittedly, the house is lovely with its arched doorways, stone walls, and terra-cotta slab floors. It reminds me of the buildings in Tuscany, infused with old world charm yet outfitted with modern trappings. I wander through the lofty living space, the two bedrooms—one a master with an en suite, the separate guest bath, a commercial-style kitchen. The house is decorated in cool neutrals and natural finishes; what it lacks in personality it makes up for in understated luxury. I feel like I’m walking through a Restoration Hardware catalogue or anArchitectural Digestspread. Too bad there’s nobody here to admire it with me.
Sinking onto the couch, all I can think about is the hollow pit in my chest. I feel so lost. And then I realize that it’s late, and that I haven’t eaten since this morning, when Greg took pity on me and threw together a quick breakfast scavenged from the tasting room’s fridge full of ingredients for tapas and cheese boards. He’d asked me what was wrong, but I’d declined to explain. After all, Dante wanted our marriage to appear intact. All I could do was lie to Greg about having a migraine coming on and do my best to smile through the rest of my shift.
My stomach growls as I head back into the kitchen. I figure there should be at least a few dry goods in the cabinets, maybe some pasta or rice I can cook up—but surprisingly, I find the kitchen fully stocked.
The cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer are all full. Everything is fresh. Huh. Then, I see a handwritten note in the middle of the marble counter. It’s tucked under a loaf of fresh baked rustic bread that’s wrapped in parchment paper and tied with string. I don’t even need to look at the note to know exactly who it’s from: Alain, the Bellantis’ personal chef.
I can feel the warmth of his good intentions as I read the note, a small smile playing at my lips even amid so much emotional wreckage. The older Frenchman was always kind and enthusiastic, eager to cook for me and make me feel welcome. The note says he’ll be keeping the kitchen well stocked, and he added his cell phone number so I can call with any special requests. He’s also happy to make me meals, as long as I don’t tell Dante.
My eyes sting at Alain’s kindness. I know he’s worked at the main house for a long time. He’s worked too hard, I imagine, and has loyalties to the Bellantis that should cancel out any kindness he feels toward me. Yet he’d stuck his neck out for me.
Still, I can’t allow him to stumble into the center of Dante’s crosshairs. As much as I appreciate the offer, there’s no way I can take Alain up on it without risking Dante’s wrath. The grocery delivery itself is more than enough to be grateful for. I’ll make do.
I take advantage of the fresh bread and make myself a slice of buttered toast, which is about all I think I can stomach right now. As I eat slowly at the counter, looking around the wood and stone of the kitchen, I’m reminded forcefully of Tuscany. It’s not just the style of the guesthouse, though. It’s the loneliness and isolation.
Of course I’d loved my time there, the learning and experience of it all. And when school was in session, it had been delightful. But although I’d been lucky enough to be able to stay in a room at a family friend’s house while I was in Italy, I never had much money to travel or even go out much, so I’d kept to myself most of the time. When my sisters visited, I played the exuberant tour guide, of course—but once they left I was back to my usual frugal, solitary state. Even more so after being dumped by Rico.
Yet here I am, back on my own. After being abandoned. Again.
I set down the half-eaten toast and let out a sigh. How long am I supposed to take part in this marriage façade? Forever? Is this guesthouse my permanent residence now, or is Dante going to arrange a quiet divorce for us as soon as possible? Where will I go? What will I do?
Midway through my mental panic, I hear a knock at the door. It’s just after eight p.m., and I wonder if it’s Alain coming to check on me.
Instead, when I look through the peephole, I see Charlie standing on the porch with Livvie at her side. Thank God for my sisters. Really, thank every God, like everywhere.
Flinging open the door, I fall into Charlie’s one-armed embrace.
