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If my wife went around calling other men darling, I’d be arrested for assault because those men would feel my wrath, and yet I’d done that to my wife.
I was a fucking moron.
“Did you get an invitation to the Carrera gala?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She grinned. “I’m hoping we can close the BuenosAires franchise deal that day, so we may have to sneak away to work a little.”
“Sounds good.”
She settled into the couch and, as if it were a secondary thought, said, “You know, you’re married to a saint. Elysa never seems to mind how often you and I end up spending time working at these events.”
Lucia was right. At these parties, I ended up spending time with Lucia and not my wife. Elysa and I came together, and we left together, except for that one time when she wasn’t feeling well, and everyone assumed she was pregnant.
“No, Elysa doesn’t.” I smiled tightly, wanting to reassure myself that it hadn’t been as bad as it sounded. If it had, Elysa would have said something. But even as I thought that, I knew she wouldn’t.
In the year we’d been married, Elysa had asked for nothing. If I said I was busy and couldn’t go for a walk with her, she didn’t insist and went by herself. If I said I couldn’t make dinner, she thanked me for letting her know. If I told her that I needed her on my arm for something social and she had to take off work, she did it without a question.
I had—I realized, a little dazed—treated my wife like a doormat.
I used her when it was convenient for me, and when it was not, I ignored her. I thought we had anicetime together, and I wondered what Elysa thought. I didn’t know because I never asked her. She didn’tcomplain, not until now, when she hit me with a divorce decree.
“You work with Patrizia, don’t you?” I asked Lucia, walking toward the windows.
She sipped her wine. “Si. Patrizia is wonderful.”
“She apparently called Elysa a fat cow,” I told her.
Lucia chuckled. “She may be thinking it, but I doubt she’d say it to her face.”
I couldn’t understand why Patrizia would think that. Elysa was a good-looking woman. So, she wasn’t cocaine chic, but she was very Sophia Loren with her big eyes and generous curves.
Nobody would call Sophia Loren a fat cow, would they?
“Why would she think that?” I demanded.
Lucia shrugged. “You know Patrizia. She’s a fashion person, and anyone who isn’t a size zero isfat. But, Dante, she’d never say it out loud.”
“She said it in Italian. Maybe she doesn’t know that Elysa speaks the language,” I suggested.
Lucia waved a hand. “But Elysa’s Italian, we know, isn’t good.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “But she has come a long way this past year.”
“Of course, but she’s hardly fluent. Patrizia is a professional, Dante. Do you really think she’d say something like that to a client’s face?” Lucia set her glass of champagne down.
Lucia was right. I had known Patrizia for a longtime, and she’d always been the epitome of professionalism.
“Elysa must’ve misunderstood,” Lucia advised. “Maybe it’s best to tell Patrizia to only speak in English when she’s with Elysa so there are no misunderstandings.”
That made sense. I’d talk to Elysa. I hadn’t canceled the appointment with Patrizia and, now, decided not to.
“That sounds like a good idea. Thank you, Lucia,” I remarked appreciatively. I liked how professional and level-headed Lucia was.
“You know, Dante, I love how easy it is to work with you.”
“I feel the same about you.”