Page 34 of Broken Trust

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Plates come back scraped clean, and people send their compliments through the waiters and then turn up at the kitchen door to shake my hand anyway. Somebody's great-uncle asks me to marry him. When the final dessert leaves the pass at eleven, the whole restaurant starts clapping, and Nella drags me out in my stained whites to take a bow while Fiorenzo's grandchildren bang their spoons on the tables.

I stand there in front of everyone with sweat running down my back and flour in my hair, and I don't think I've ever been prouder of anything.

And yet, right in the middle of all that clapping, I catch myself glancing at the entrance.

I know it's stupid. His lawyer would have given him the divorce papers weeks ago, and since then I haven't heard a single word from him. I kept saying that was what I wanted. That was the whole point of filing, to cut him loose, and that means he doesn't get a place in nights like this.

But some foolish corner of my heart thought that tonight, of all times, he might send something. A card, or a single flower, or just a text saying good luck. Anything that showed he knew how much this meant to me.

He doesn't. So I smile and wave at Fiorenzo's family and go back into the kitchen before anyone can see my face.

It's nearly one a.m. when the stragglers finally leave.

The waiters stack the chairs and mop the floor and head out across the square in twos and threes, shouting goodnight. Matteo hangs his apron on the hook by the back door and wraps me in a hug with one huge arm.

“You're a genius and a slave driver,” he says into my hair. “I'll see you at ten. Go home and sleep, boss.”

When he's gone, it's just Nella and me and the hum of the dishwasher. I pour us each a glass of the good red and slide hers across the steel counter, and we clink them together in silence.

“You really did it,” Nella says after a while. “I could burst, I swear.”

“I couldn't have done any of it without you.”

“Oh, please. All I did was carry plates around and flirt with the critic.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “You flirted with him?”

“Only a little. He had very nice hands.” She grins at me over her glass. “Don't worry, your ravioli did most of the work.”

I laugh and lean my head back against the shelves, and as soon as I close my eyes, every muscle in my body starts to ache at once. My feet are throbbing, and there's a burn on my wrist from the grill that I didn't even notice until now. I've never been this tired, or this happy.

When my eyes drift open again, I find myself staring at the counter by the sink.

The diaper bag is still under there, tucked behind the bucket of cleaning rags where nobody will trip over it. Navy blue, with that little white elephant on the side. I've been meaning to send it back to him for two months now. Every Monday I take it out and leave it by the register, and I promise myself I'll drop it at the post office, and by Friday it's back under the sink again.

Nella follows my gaze and sighs. “You still haven't sent that back to him.”

“I will.”

“You told me that at Easter, Gia.”

“I've been busy.” I take a big gulp of wine. “Anyway, it's not like he's come asking for it.”

“Sweetheart.” Her voice goes soft. “He didn't send you anything tonight, did he?”

I don't answer, and she lets it go. She just reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“That's a good thing,” she says quietly. “I know it doesn't feel like it now, but it is. You wanted a clean break, and that's what this is. So stop waiting on him.”

I open my mouth to tell her I wasn't, and that's when the bell over the front door jingles.

Nella and I stare at each other.

I locked up after the waiters left. I'm almost sure I did. But it rings again, softer this time, and a cool draft blows through the kitchen and rattles the tickets on the rail.

For one wild second, my heart leaps into my throat, because I'm convinced it's him, that after everything, he's come, late and sorry and holding some ridiculous bunch of flowers he picked up at a gas station, and he's out there in my restaurant this very minute.

I put my glass down so fast the wine sloshes over the rim, and I push through the swinging doors.