call was dropped. “About that,” Eli finally says. “I’m going to have to stay out here for a few more weeks. All of my shows at the venue have been sold out, so my manager wants me to stay awhile longer, possibly follow up with another leg of the East Coast tour.”
“But I . . . I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” Mary says, her voice faltering. “I miss you so much. This distance is killing me.”
“I know, beautiful, I know. And I’ll be home right after this next round of shows. We could use the money, with the kitchen remodel and all.” Mary thinks of Luca in the kitchen, poring over the drawings, which she’d just as well toss in the kitchen fireplace and incinerate.
“Right,” she says, almost robotically.
“Thanks for understanding,” he says. “Call you later?”
“Sure,” she says.
Mary stands stunned in the living room for a long moment. A single tear streams down her face as she glances at the mantel, where a framed photo of her and Eli on their wedding day sits. She turns around when she hears footsteps behind her. Luca stands across the room. She almost forgot he was there.
“I’m sorry, I interrupt?”
With the edge of her wrist, she quickly wipes away the tear on her cheek.
“Are you OK?” Luca asks, walking toward her. His eyes are big and filled with concern. She notices, for the first time, a scar beneath his right eye.
“Yes,” she says quickly. “I’m fine.”
“Sit down,” he says.
She nods.
“Why you cry?”
Another tear falls onto her cheek, and this time Mary doesn’t try to conceal it. “My husband isn’t coming home.”
Luca nods as if he understands, but he doesn’t. This world is too impossible for him to make sense of. Here is a woman, a beautiful woman, and her husband has let go of her hand, just as his fiancée let go of his four years ago. She walked into the café in that pale blue dress, told him about the other man, and broke his heart so badly, it still aches.
He doesn’t say anything. There are no words that will mend her, and besides, even if there were, he knows he could not string them together into a sentence that would be well understood, much less meaningful to her. So he sits beside her on the couch as the clock on the wall ticks, and he offers her his only gift: his presence. They will go over kitchen construction plans another time.
“I’m sorry,” Mary says, standing up quickly. “You must think I’m a lunatic.”
“A lunatic?” he says.
She smiles. “It means . . . a crazy person.”
Luca grins. “You are not crazy, no.”
“Well,” she says, reaching for a tissue from the box on the side table. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow. I’ll have my act together then.”
“Of course,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
The word echoes in Mary’s ears long after Luca has left. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
The problem is, she heard the tone in Eli’s voice on the phone—the doubt, the hesitation. And while Mary’s tomorrows once looked bright, she now has to squint through the darkness to see.
Chapter 8
February 12, 2013
D ark, wet clouds hover low over Pike Place Market, and I feel mist on my face as I walk to the flower shop. I stop in to see Elaine and grab a chocolate croissant on the way.
“Hi, honey,” she says from behind the counter. Her eyes look more tired than usual. Dark shadows lie beneath. And she’s lost weight, at least five pounds. I wonder if she’s been sick.
“Eat something,” I say with a grin. “Nobody likes a skinny baker.”
Elaine forces a smile and readjusts her ponytail. “I haven’t had much of an appetite these days,” she says, pausing for a long moment before looking at me again. Then she shakes her head. “Actually, there’s something I’d like to talk about.” She indicates a corner table. “Can you sit down for a sec?”
“Of course,” I say. She grabs two chocolate croissants, and I follow her past pink and red heart decorations. I remember
“But I . . . I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” Mary says, her voice faltering. “I miss you so much. This distance is killing me.”
“I know, beautiful, I know. And I’ll be home right after this next round of shows. We could use the money, with the kitchen remodel and all.” Mary thinks of Luca in the kitchen, poring over the drawings, which she’d just as well toss in the kitchen fireplace and incinerate.
“Right,” she says, almost robotically.
“Thanks for understanding,” he says. “Call you later?”
“Sure,” she says.
Mary stands stunned in the living room for a long moment. A single tear streams down her face as she glances at the mantel, where a framed photo of her and Eli on their wedding day sits. She turns around when she hears footsteps behind her. Luca stands across the room. She almost forgot he was there.
“I’m sorry, I interrupt?”
With the edge of her wrist, she quickly wipes away the tear on her cheek.
“Are you OK?” Luca asks, walking toward her. His eyes are big and filled with concern. She notices, for the first time, a scar beneath his right eye.
“Yes,” she says quickly. “I’m fine.”
“Sit down,” he says.
She nods.
“Why you cry?”
Another tear falls onto her cheek, and this time Mary doesn’t try to conceal it. “My husband isn’t coming home.”
Luca nods as if he understands, but he doesn’t. This world is too impossible for him to make sense of. Here is a woman, a beautiful woman, and her husband has let go of her hand, just as his fiancée let go of his four years ago. She walked into the café in that pale blue dress, told him about the other man, and broke his heart so badly, it still aches.
He doesn’t say anything. There are no words that will mend her, and besides, even if there were, he knows he could not string them together into a sentence that would be well understood, much less meaningful to her. So he sits beside her on the couch as the clock on the wall ticks, and he offers her his only gift: his presence. They will go over kitchen construction plans another time.
“I’m sorry,” Mary says, standing up quickly. “You must think I’m a lunatic.”
“A lunatic?” he says.
She smiles. “It means . . . a crazy person.”
Luca grins. “You are not crazy, no.”
“Well,” she says, reaching for a tissue from the box on the side table. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow. I’ll have my act together then.”
“Of course,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
The word echoes in Mary’s ears long after Luca has left. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
The problem is, she heard the tone in Eli’s voice on the phone—the doubt, the hesitation. And while Mary’s tomorrows once looked bright, she now has to squint through the darkness to see.
Chapter 8
February 12, 2013
D ark, wet clouds hover low over Pike Place Market, and I feel mist on my face as I walk to the flower shop. I stop in to see Elaine and grab a chocolate croissant on the way.
“Hi, honey,” she says from behind the counter. Her eyes look more tired than usual. Dark shadows lie beneath. And she’s lost weight, at least five pounds. I wonder if she’s been sick.
“Eat something,” I say with a grin. “Nobody likes a skinny baker.”
Elaine forces a smile and readjusts her ponytail. “I haven’t had much of an appetite these days,” she says, pausing for a long moment before looking at me again. Then she shakes her head. “Actually, there’s something I’d like to talk about.” She indicates a corner table. “Can you sit down for a sec?”
“Of course,” I say. She grabs two chocolate croissants, and I follow her past pink and red heart decorations. I remember
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