The Memory Child by Steena Holmes

wine.
    “Marcello, I didn’t think you were in tonight.”
    Brian set down his glass as the jovial Italian man sat down in the seat ne xt to him.
    “As soon as my Sara told me you were here, I came right over.” He smoothed the linen and readjusted the flowers in the vase in the center of the table. “Where is that lovely wife of yours? I’ve missed her smile and l aughter.”
    “She’s runni ng late.”
    “That woman needs to learn the art of relaxation. She needs to learn f rom you.”
    It was rare that someone would criticize Diane’s work ethic, but Marcello rarely minc ed words.
    They’d discovered Luigi’s when it first opened a few years ago. From the moment they entered the restaurant, they’d felt like they’d stepped into another time and place. Marcello had transformed an old cowboy-boot factory into a rustic Italian eatery, with exposed beams, a fireplace, black-and-white photos of the “old country,” and a few areas to sit comfortably on the leather sofas and chairs that ran alongside the din ing area.
    Diane used to say she could come in here after a long day at work and just relax. She once confessed that she’d sometimes escape during the day for a glass of wine. Marcello had created an area specifically for Diane to relax in. He’d asked for her help in creating a little sitting area, so she’d shown up one day with a leather chair and footstool, a few side tables, lamps, framed mirror, and even a small bookshelf. Every so often, Diane would bring in books and leave them there, sometimes left open, other times with a bookmark. It was her little touch, she’d say. A little touch in her littl e heaven.
    “Her book is still on her table, you know. She hasn’t come in for a few weeks now to read. I can’t help but be worried.”
    Brian toyed with his wineglass. “Things have been a little busy for her at the office.” It was killing him that he couldn’t shout out to the world that they were havin g a baby.
    “I heard about her promotion.” A frown marred the large man’s face as he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s abo ut time.”
    “What’s with the fro wn then?”
    “It should have happened years ago.” Marcello took a wineglass offered from one of the servers who approached before waving the man off.
    The front door opened and a couple walked in, hand in hand. A server approached them, offering to take their coats before leading them t o a table.
    “Ah, I remember when the two of you would come in like that, holding hands. You’d stare into each other’s eyes, sharing your meals and dessert. You’d spend hours here, relaxed and enjoying life. Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?” A speculative gleam filled Marcello’s eyes as he glanced at Brian.
    Sadly , it did.
    “You know what you need?”
    “A vacation? Trust me, I’ve thought about it. Now’s not a good time for Diane. Maybe a weekend away, though. Any sug gestions?”
    “No, no, not a vacation. Although”—his brows wiggled as a smile grew across his face—“a weekend away might be perfect. My cousin owns a cabin up in the mountains if you’re interested. But no, what you need, my dear friend, is a little bambino.” His hands flew outward, as if he were announcing to the whole restaurant his brilli ant idea.
    Brian only wished he’d kept his voice down, for at that moment in walk ed Diane.
    He studied her as she crossed the room toward him. Her shoulders were stiff and there was a frown on her face. Had she heard? God, he hoped not. That was the last thing he needed to deal wit h tonight.
    “Diane!” Marcello rose and held out his arms.
    Diane threw Brian a wary look but returned Marcel lo’s hug.
    “We were just talking about you.” Marcello pulled back and took her hands in his. “You look tired. Weary. You work too hard. You don’t come here enough anymore.” He pouted. Brian pushed his chair back and stood.
    “I’m sorry, Marcello,” Diane said. “Work has