Chapter 2

La Fontana was full of laughter.

Through the glass door I could see a dozen women crowded around the long table. The tablecloth was mine—hand-stitched Sicilian lace I'd brought back from Palermo, the kind of thing Italian families pass down like heirlooms. Pistachio shells and olive pits were heaped in little mountains across its surface.

Behind the bar, Sofia Valenti was working a corkscrew into a bottle of wine.

My wine.

A 1971 Barolo from Piedmont. My father's. He'd kept it for over thirty years, and my mother placed it in my hands on my wedding day. "Save it for your happiest day, Elena."

Sofia's grip was clumsy. The cork snapped in half and red wine splashed across the white marble counter.

Someone clapped. "Sofia, this place is gorgeous. Your husband really spoiled you."

Sofia's cheeks flushed pink. "Oh stop, Nico would be embarrassed."

The table erupted in laughter. "It's only a matter of time, honey. You two grew up together—that's stronger than anything."

I pushed the door open.

The bell chimed. Every head turned.

Sofia froze, then shifted the bottle behind her back.

"Elena! I didn't think you'd be coming by. The restaurant seemed empty, so I brought my mother and some of the ladies over. Nico said you wouldn't mind."

I looked past her to the wall behind the bar.

There used to be a black-and-white photograph hanging there—Dominic and me on opening day, standing in front of the brick wall, paint on his hands, both of us grinning like fools.

It had been replaced with a photo of Sofia posing against the geranium wall in a white dress. In her arms was Lucia—my Italian Greyhound.

"Where's Lucia?"

Sofia's smile thinned. "My mother is allergic to dog hair. Nico took her to a boarding kennel. Don't worry—he paid for a whole year."

A year.

I wasn't home, and he couldn't even tolerate my dog.

The door swung open again. Dominic walked in carrying a cake box, saw me, and frowned first.

"What are you doing here?"

He set the cake on the table. Carmela waved him over immediately. "Nico, come, come. The ladies are all saying what a good man you are."

Dominic ignored her. He gripped my wrist and pulled me toward the door, his voice low. "Don't make a scene. It's Carmela's birthday. Sofia just borrowed the place for a couple hours."

"Borrowing the place means opening my wine?"

"It's one bottle. I'll buy you ten."

I looked at him and felt something inside me go very still.

"Dominic, do you even remember how this restaurant came to be?"

He blinked, thrown.

The second year of our marriage, I'd had a miscarriage. For weeks I couldn't sleep through the night. He brought me to see this old storefront—bare walls, cracked tile, a leak in the ceiling.

"We'll grow herbs together. We'll cook together. We'll make our life warm again."

On opening day he carried the first pot of geraniums to the windowsill with his own hands, got paint all over his fingers, and leaned in to nuzzle my nose with his.

"Elena, things are only going to get better."

Better. So much better that he'd handed the place to another woman to play house in.

"Stop digging up the past." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Carmela just got out of the hospital. Let the old woman have a nice afternoon. Go inside, say something pleasant, don't make Sofia lose face."

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"Last year my mother broke her leg. Did you ever think about making her happy?"

"That's different."

"How?"

He had no answer.

Sofia appeared in the doorway, tissue crumpled in her fist, bottom lip trembling on cue.

"Elena, don't blame Nico. It's my fault. I thought you didn't come here often, so I borrowed it for my mother's birthday. I can ask everyone to leave."

She glanced back inside. The women had gone quiet, every one of them listening.

Dominic immediately stepped in front of her. "Nobody's leaving."

He turned to me, voice gone hard.

"Elena, enough. You keep throwing your mother's situation in my face—what's the point? I wired you money for the hotel, didn't I?"

I didn't want to argue anymore. I took out my phone and called Danny, the busboy.

"Danny, come to La Fontana. I need every tablecloth, every chair cover stripped and boxed. Now."

Twenty minutes later he pulled up in a van.

I stripped the lace tablecloths myself—right in front of all those family wives, right in front of the pistachio shells and the spilled Barolo and every pair of watching eyes. In the world they lived in, this was the equivalent of flipping the table. Every woman in that room would carry this story home.

Carmela stood up. "What kind of wife does this? Making a scene in front of everyone over a little party?"

I dropped the last tablecloth into the box.

"Garbage doesn't stay overnight, Carmela. House rules."

Dominic's face went dark. I turned away from him and pulled the trust transfer documents from my bag.

"You're pulling the restaurant out of the family? You know what runs through those books."

"My name is on the deed, Dominic. My signature. My liability. I decide what happens to it."

Sofia murmured from behind him. "Nico, let it go. Elena is probably just upset seeing us here."

Dominic stayed planted in front of her, shielding her.

"You walk out that door, don't expect me to come after you."

I signed my name, tucked the papers away, and walked past him.

"When have you ever?"

The bell over the door rang once more.

Behind me I heard the sound of him slamming the cake into the table.

Out on the sidewalk, my phone buzzed. A text from the hospital.

My mother's prescription refill was ready. A family member needed to pick it up by tomorrow.