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“Now, why don’t we look through the franchisee contracts while we eat dinner?” She got up and pointed to the dining table.
We ordered dinner and worked as we ate.
We spread out the franchisee contracts on the coffee table next to our plates of food and dissected the fine print.
I was reminded again why Lucia was a better match for me. She was sharp, methodical, and grounded in a way I admired. Where Elysa was about living in the moment and keeping life easy and uncomplicated, Lucia was all about the adventure of cutthroat business. She had an eye for details I sometimes missed and a way of slicing through complications with ease.
She pointed to a clause in one of the contracts, tapping her pen against it. “This isn’t worded strongly enough. They could take advantage of us if there’s an operational hiccup.”
Lucia was a confident woman who thrived in situations like this, where logic and precision ruled. Elysa lacked Lucia’s gravitas and dynamism.
“Good catch.” I made a note of it on my tablet.
She glanced up at me, her lips curving into a soft smile. With Lucia, there was no chaos. No second-guessing. No wondering if she was happy, if I was doing enough, or ifIwas enough.
Lucia didn’t need endless reassurances. She had enough self-esteem and confidence—unlike Elysa, who was constantly looking for validation. Or maybe it was her age. Elysa was in her mid-twenties, while Lucia was in her early thirties.
As Lucia and I worked through the contract, that hollow, unsettled feeling that had been plaguing me for days crept inside me. It was like trying to fill a sieve with water—no matter how much I accomplished, it still leaked away.
“Dante,” Lucia called and pulled me out of my head. “You’ve barely touched your wine.” She tilted her head toward my glass.
I looked at the untouched glass of Barolo and felt a pang in my chest. “Nonno loved this vintage and winemaker.”
Her eyes softened as she studied me. “You miss him.”
“Every day.” The words were raw and hoarse from unshed tears and a grief that was all-consuming in how it came and went from moment to moment.
People said there were five stages of grief, but what they didn’t say was that they were not linear. One minute, I was angry; the other, I was in denial, and then I was bargaining. The worst part was that the grief I felt for Nonno was wrapped in how I was feeling about Elysa leaving. I felt a surge of rage at her for being so inconsiderate, for throwing divorce papers at me while I was dealing with the death of my grandfather. But the anger dissipated as I remembered how she’d sobbed at Nonno’s bedside, her heart breaking at his loss. The past year, she’d spent more time with Nonno than I had. No, Elysa’s grief probably matched mine. She was probably angry with me for having caused a situation where she needed to do something drastic, like ask me for a divorce while she was grieving the loss of a man she thought of as her Nonno.
Lucia reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “You’re allowed to grieve, Dante.”
I moved my hand away almost instinctively.
Was I always this careful about physical contact?
It hit me then—I didn’t like Lucia touching me. Not even casually. Not a hand on my arm, a brush of fingers when she reached for her wine, or the way she leaned in just a little too close when she spoke.
When had that happened?
When had I gone from tolerating it—hell, sometimes even enjoying it—to feeling like my skin crawled under her touch?
I knew. It was since I got married—since Elysa.
It didn’t matter that our marriage had started as an arrangement, that I had once convinced myself it was nothing more than obligation and convenience. The moment I said, “Si, lo voglio” in the small chapel in Piedmont to the priest marrying Elysa and me, something had shifted.
I had belonged to my wife in a way I hadn't fully understood at the time. And now, standing here, recoiling from a woman I once thought I could have wanted, I realized that even though Elysa wasn’t with me, wasn’t wearing my ring—I was still hers.
Lucia noticed that I pulled back, and she frowned. “I’m here for you, as a friend and…yourperson, Dante.”
She tried again to put a hand on my shoulder, but instead of taking her hand in mine and smiling at her, I put her hand right back where it belonged—anywhere other than my body. What the fuck was wrong with me? We were friends, and I was treating her like she was a stranger.
She frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,cara.”I sighed when she raised her eyebrows because it was evident that I was lying. “I’m just…grieving.”
“I know.” Her eyes were soft, and this time when she took my hand in hers, I let her. It felt rude not to.
“It’s going to take time to mourn him, to…move forward.” I looked at her hand on mine. Her skin was porcelain pale. Her nails painted a deep burgundy like a good glass of cabernet sauvignon. She wore two rings, both with somewhat larger diamonds; neither was on her ring finger. These were ornamental.