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My fiancé and I were to arrive at my parents’ house at six o’clock for dinner. Our first dinner as an engaged couple.
Ms. Sterling said that showing my folks I was happy and taken care of was of the essence.
She aided me with the preparations, helping me slide into a yellow maxi summer chiffon dress and matching Jimmy Choo sandaled heels.
When she fixed my hair in front of the mirror, it dawned on me that our light banter about the weather, my love for horses, and her love for romance books reminded me a lot of my connection with Clara.
Something that felt a lot like hope started blooming in my chest. Having a friend would make living here so much more bearable.
My new beau, of course, must’ve sensed my cautious optimism because he decided to crush and burn it by sending me a text message:
Will be late. Meet you there. No pulling tricks, Nem.
He couldn’t even show up on time to our first dinner with my parents. And, of course, he still thought I’d try to run away somehow.
Heat bubbled in my veins throughout the drive.
The black Escalade pulled up to my parents’ curb, and Mama and Clara hurried outside, showering me with hugs and kisses as if I’d just returned from a warzone.
My father was standing at the doorway in his sharp suit, frowning at my nearing figure as I laced my arms with the women of my former household as we walked in.
I daren’t meet his eyes.
When I took the four steps up to our entrance door, he merely moved aside to let me pass, not offering me a hug, a kiss, or even a pleasantry.
I looked the other way. Our shoulders brushed, and it felt like his sliced mine with its rigid, icy stance.
“You look beautiful, Vita Mia,” Mama breathed behind me, pulling at the hem of my dress.
“Freedom agrees with me,” I bit out bitterly, my back to Papa as I went to the dining room and poured myself a glass of wine before Wolfe arrived.
The next hour was spent making idle conversation with my mother while my father nursed a glass of brandy and stared me down from across the room.
Clara came and went out of the salon, providing refreshments and zeppole to curb our hunger.
“Something smells.” I scrunched my nose.
“That would be your fiancé,” my father said, sitting back in his executive chair. My mother laughed off his words.
“We had a bit of an incident in the backyard. It’s fine now.”
Another hour vanished, washed away by a stream of words as my mother brought my father and me up to date with all the latest gossip regarding the desperate housewives of The Outfit.
Who got married and who got divorced. Who was cheating and who was being cheated on.
Angelo’s little brother wanted to propose to his girlfriend, but Mike Bandini, his father, thought it to be a problematic announcement, especially as Angelo didn’t have any prospects to marry anyone anytime soon.
Thanks to me.
Mom bit her lower lip when she realized it sounded a lot like an accusation, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. She did that a lot.
I chucked it to her low self-esteem after years of being married to my father.
“Of course, Angelo will move on.” She swatted the air.
“Think before you speak, Sofia. It would serve you well,” he advised.
When the grandfather clock chimed for the second time that evening—announcing it was eight o’clock—we moved to the dining room and began to eat our starters.
