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It’s early evening by the time we get to the hotel. David helps me out of the car, solicitous of me, which I’ve noticed more and more. He’s careful with me constantly, as if he’s afraid something might happen to me as the pregnancy goes on, and I’ve tried to reassure him. To my great relief, it’s something I can do now—now that he’s grown more and more comfortable with talking to me about how he feels.
I don’t know if David will ever be a man who speaks about his feelings in great detail, but I’ve learned how to read him, now that he’s let me in. And I can see him trying. His love language is clearly gifts—ever since the night we agreed to work on our marriage, the house is filled with roses every day. Every meal is something he knows I like to eat and can keep down, even as the pregnancy has gone on and my nausea has vanished. He’s promised that when we return home from our honeymoon, we’ll have a staff, so there won’t be takeout for every meal any longer—even if it always has been the finest of restaurant takeout.
“I have a surprise for you in our hotel room,” he murmurs as we’re swept inside the gilded doors, the concierge greeting David by name.
“Everything is arranged, Mr. Carravella,” he says, and David nods, taking the keycard from him.
“Already?” I whisper as we walk towards the elevator. “What did youdo?”
“You’ll see.” There’s a broad smile on his face, and I feel a flutter of excitement in my chest. I’ve never been one to pretend that I don’t like being spoiled, and David excels at doing exactly that.
When we step into the penthouse suite, I don’t immediately see what he’s done. It’s a beautiful room, but it looks like what I would expect from a five-star hotel. There’s nothing out of the ordinary that I notice—until my gaze drifts to the open doors leading out to the balcony, and I gasp.
There are lights strung across the balcony and overhead, bathing the space in soft light. The table is large enough for a huge vase of roses and candles, and I see champagne chilling in a bucket, the table already set with our first course. David leads me to it, and I immediately see the view below—the glowing lights and expansive, colorful sights of the Amalfi Coast spreading out in front of us.
“This is gorgeous,” I whisper, and David turns me to face him, his hands resting on my waist.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, his fingers brushing over my cheek. “My perfect, gorgeous wife. I should have known sooner how perfect you were for me. But I plan to spend the rest of my life showing you exactly how much I know that to be true.” His hand slides into my hair, drawing me closer, tilting my mouth up to his. “I love you, Amalie Carravella. And I will tell you every day, from now until forever.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I look up at him, stunned, tears filling my eyes. “I’ve wanted to say it,” I whisper. “I was afraid to. But I know I shouldn’t have been. I should always tell you how I feel. I love you too, David. And I can’t wait to hear you tell me over and over, so I can say it back.”
The smile that spreads over his face is the best thing I’ve ever seen. The way his lips feel against mine when he kisses me is beyond perfection. And I know, standing there on that balcony, that this is the beginning of our life together. Here, in this place—a different version of the one where we met—we can be just the two of us until we go home.
And then, in the place that we’ve made into that home, we’ll be happy.
I have no doubt of that any longer.
EPILOGUE
AMALIE
Two years later
As I liftmy daughter onto my hip, balancing her there as I turn away from the stove, I look towards the front door to see if David is home yet. I can hear Frances—our cook—muttering to herself about something on the other side of the room, and I have no doubt it’s something to do with me being in here at all. She doesn’t particularly like me taking up her space, but it was important to me to make this for David, today of all days.
I’m never going to be a good cook, and that’s fine. I don’t particularly have any desire to learn, and David doesn’t care if I can. He’s kept his promise to fill out the house with a staff to take care of it, leaving me to do the things I enjoy and take care of our daughter. But I’ve never forgotten what he told me about what his mother used to bake that morning. Over many long, stealthy hours while he was away, I think I’ve finally managed to make an approximation of it.
I hear the front door open and sweep the plate off of the counter, still holding Marcia as I walk quickly to the dining room. There’s a vase of roses in the middle of the table—David has fresh ones delivered every week. I can’t think of a single promise to me that he hasn’t kept, or a single thing he hasn’t done to try to make me happy. He’s tried, every single day, since we said we would. As a result, we have something that I never would have imagined was possible for me, even before I knew David and I were going to be wed—a happy marriage.
“Amalie?” His voice rings through the house, and I set Marcia down in her high chair, settling in next to her.
“I’m in the dining room!” I call out loudly enough for him to hear me, and my breath catches in my throat as I hear his footsteps heading our way.
I’ve always thought he was handsome, but something changed as our relationship did. Every time I see him, I feel that rush of desire that I’m used to, but there’s something else now, too. A warmth, a happiness—a sense of safety that I once would never have thought we could find together. I don’t want to ever take it for granted.
It takes David a moment to see what I’ve made for him. He swoops down to give me a kiss and then presses one to the top of Marcia’s head, dodging out of the way before she can grab onto his tie and strangle him with it. He glances over the table, as if wondering why I’m in here waiting for him—and then he sees the plate and the cups of hot cocoa next to it.
“You didn’t.” He laughs, a genuine sound that I’ve begun to be more and more used to hearing from him. “You learned to bake banana bread.”
“I don’t know if it’sgood,” I warn him. “But I thought it might be a nice way to celebrate the house being finished. The last contractors left today, and everything has been signed off. It’s completely done. And it’s cold outside, so I thought the hot cocoa was a nice touch.”
“It’s supposed to snow tonight.” David sinks into the chair opposite me, reaching for a piece. “It’s really all finished?”
I nod, feeling a sense of happiness mingled with relief. The renovations were put on hold for a little while towards the end of my pregnancy—when I was truly miserable on a level comparable to the very beginning of it—and while Marcia was a newborn, since it was impossible to keep any kind of sleep schedule consistent with having people working on the house. For the last several months, they’ve been at it nonstop—and I’ve occupied what time I have with decorating, taking over the project almost completely as David has had more and more to do with the family businesses. “I hope you like it,” I say softly, and he smiles as he breaks off a piece of the banana bread.
“Everything I’ve seen I’ve loved so far,” he assures me. “You’ve kept the historic feeling of the house while still updating things. It’s perfect, Amalie. Although I’ll still buy you that summer home in Boston if you want,” he adds teasingly, and I laugh.
“I don’t think it’s warmer there. Maybe one in Florida.”
