“I’m pretty much sold on Marcello. Marcello Leonardo Bellanti. Has a nice ring, no?”
Looking at the paper again, I skim the list. He’s written two columns. One for boy names and one for girls. Marcello has a circle around it. So does Sofia.
Emotion jigs around inside my chest. I’m so torn. Is he serious, or is this just another game he’s playing? But my heart is so hopeful that I decide to play along. Because it feels good.
And because I want more than anything for this to be real.
“Sofia is nice,” I say carefully. “I haven’t really thought about names yet, girls’ or boys’. What about middle names, if it’s a girl?”
“Don’t know yet. But I’m open to your ideas.”
Clearing my throat, I scan the list of female names. “Elisabetta is good, too. Elisabetta Bellanti. That’s pretty.”
“She’d need a proper middle name or two. What do you think? Irish names, maybe?”
“Sure, if you want Maeve or Saoirse in the middle of Elisabetta and Bellanti.”
He nods. “I like that. Elisabetta Shur-sha Bellanti.”
“Sur-sha,” I say, hiding my grin as I gently correct his pronunciation.
We pull into the parking lot of a local French viennoiserie where Frankie gets all the baked goods for the Bellanti Vineyards tasting room. The people who run the place are brilliant. I’ve never tasted a less-than-perfect croissant or apple tart from them. They can do no wrong.
“What are we doing here?”
Armani grins. “Thought I’d pick up some pastries for dessert tonight, since we’re in the neighborhood. I’ll be cooking dinner, too, by the way. Going to try my hand at Chef Idris’s secret risotto recipe and some seared scallops. Sound good?”
“Um, yes?”
Our next stop is The Paint Works, an unassuming white cinderblock building that’s much more than meets the eye. Armani seems almost giddy as he leads me inside. The whole time we look at paint chips, my heart keeps telling me that maybe, just maybe, hedoeswant this baby and our little family. That the reason he’s kept on pushing me away is because of his past trauma, his fear that everything he loves will be taken away from him if he gets too attached.
We end up with five colors we like, so we get sample cans of each so that we can test them out on the wall at home. Most of the nursery décor I’ve been seeing on the internet leans toward neutrals—beige, cream, gray—but none of those trendy, minimalist, vaguely Scandinavian design schemes has resonated with me. I want my baby’s room to be a soothing, happy place, but I also want color. Pale cornflower blue, ballet pink, seafoam green. Maybe wallpaper with fresh, botanical elements or a fun pattern. Armani seemed open to my ideas, and he even ordered a few wallpaper samples from the paint store that will be mailed to the house in a few days. I’m excited to start narrowing down our options soon.
Back in the car, Armani slides his hand over mine across the center console, and when he squeezes, a warm and reassuring feeling floods my veins. I shouldn’t let him affect me, but this feels so nice. Like we’re a real family. My eyes start to get misty, so I quickly pull my hand away and look out the window.
“Is this too overwhelming?” Armani asks, sounding concerned. “We can just head home if you need to decompress.”
“No, no. This has been perfect,” I tell him. “But…where else did you want to go?”
“Just a few more stops,” he says mysteriously.
I’m on cloud nine as he takes me to an upscale shop for maternity clothes, and then out to lunch at Celadon, a fancy restaurant next to the Napa River that serves comfort food amidst an exquisite, sprawling courtyard. The food, the setting, the company…all of it is heaven.
By the time we wrap up at the baby furniture store in the late afternoon, I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen head over heels in love with my husband.
All over again.
17
CANDI
Two days have passed,and Armani’s care and attention toward me continue on unabated.
He wakes me in the morning whispering sweet Italian endearments in my ear and kisses me from cheek to belly before he gets out of bed. He checks in throughout the day—via actual phone calls—to be sure I’m feeling well, that I’ve eaten, that I’m not stressed out now that I’m back to working from home. After dinner, instead of going back to the Bellanti offices to sneak a few extra emails in, he follows me upstairs to watch TV or snuggle.
He’s a completely different person.
I still don’t know what’s up with him, and I’m still suspicious of his motives. But I’m not looking this gift horse in the mouth. I’m relishing every second of it.
