Now I shrug off Chess’s question, saying, “I also wrote two Petal books that year, so you’re right, it was a crazy time.”
Chess turns back to the stove, taking a sip of wine. “Anyway, the timing was bad, I guess. Plus, I brought up the idea to Matt, and he was, like, super weird about it. I think he felt like I was stepping on his toes or something? Like only he could have an anniversary with you?” She laughs then, her hair brushing her shoulders as she tips her head back. “Do you remember how mad he got at your reception when I joked that he was actually marrying both of us?”
He hadn’t actually been mad, just … irritated, I think. I can still remember how his smile had gone a little hard on his face, how I’d had this sudden knot in my stomach.
What will I do if they don’t like each other? I’d wondered when they’d first met. Things with me and Matt had moved pretty quickly, and he and Chess had only hung out a couple of times before the wedding.
But that had ended up being a pointless fear. Even though Chess can be a lot, Matt genuinely liked her. The three of us hanging out had never been awkward, and Matt good-naturedly accepted our in-jokes or references to some teen movie from 2002. Thinking about it now, I realize that I almost miss him.
What a fucking pathetic thought.
Matt is gone now, and Chess is here. I am here, and I hop off the counter, going to inspect the stove.
There’s the pot Chess was stirring, which I see now is gravy, and there’s another sauté pan of asparagus on the back burner. In the oven, I can see a chicken, skin brown and crispy, surrounded by piles of golden chunks of potato, and I straighten up, my eyebrows raised.
“You cooked?” Chess can cook, but I’ve never known her to actually enjoy doing so.
She screws up her face for a second, thinking, and then finally shakes her head. “I really, really want to lie to you and say yes, but actually, the girl who’ll be looking after us up here, Giulia, brought it all in. I’m not cooking so much as … warming.”
I smile, making my way to the blue enamel fridge, opening it to find yet another bottle of wine chilling inside. I top off both our glasses and say, “You know you just used the phrase, ‘the girl who’ll be looking after us,’ right? You know you’re now a person who says something like that?”
She rolls her eyes as she licks a spot of gravy off the side of her hand. “That’s what she is! She kind of … I don’t know, comes with the house. Does some light cleaning, brings meals, that kind of thing. Apparently, her family has been working here for generations.”
I take that in, gathering up a couple of plates from the cabinets and walking over to the pretty little kitchen table, draped in a floral tablecloth. “Do you think, like, her mom or her grandmother was here when—”
Chess lifts a finger. “Remember,” she warns me. “Only four more chances to mention it, do you really want to waste two in one day?”
I grin, shaking my head, and finish setting the table.
We feast on the asparagus, cooked with lemon and olive oil, and the chicken and potatoes, the gravy somehow rich and vibrant all at once, all of it washed down with cold glasses of the Orvieto wine the region is famous for. It’s sweeter than I normally drink, but it tastes like summer, and by the time I get up from the table, I’m fuller than I have been in ages, and also more than a little tipsy.
Chess is, too, giggling as she tucks a bottle of limoncello under one arm, two tiny glasses pinched between her fingers, and makes a sweeping gesture toward the door into the hallway.
“Come, let us retire to the drawing room,” she says, putting on an overly posh, old-world voice, and I follow behind her, trying not to bump into things. The sun has gone down, and while there are lamps on in the main sitting room we pass, the hall itself is shrouded in shadows.
Chess stops in front of a set of double doors, pushing them open with one elbow. I fumble for the light switch, but as she sets down the limoncello and the glasses, she makes a tsk-tsk noise at me.
“Uh-uh. Hold on.”
There’s the flick of a lighter, and suddenly a warm pool of light springs up from a tall chest of drawers just by the door. A fat candle in a metal holder splutters, and I watch as Chess goes around the room, lighting more candles. Two more thick pillars are on the mantel just over the fireplace, their light reflected in a gilded mirror, and then a few tea lights on the low table in front of the sofa.
Finally, for the pièce de résistance, she lights a massive candelabra, crystals dripping off of it, making a soft clinking sound as she hefts it on top of a long, low shelf.
I remember seeing this room during Chess’s grand tour, but in the afternoon light, it had been unremarkable—a smaller sitting room, slightly overstuffed with furniture, not as pretty as the main salon, its windows facing the front of the house rather than the prettier view out back.
But now, lit by flickering candlelight, the space is transformed. It feels intimate, but also glamorous, and more than a little mysterious. The rug underfoot is a little threadbare, the hardwood floors scuffed, but I like how worn in it feels. There’s something about the drooping sofa with its tasseled cushions, and the matching wingback chairs done in gold velvet, bald patches showing in spots. It feels like this room has seen some things.
“This,” Chess says, crossing over to another little cabinet, “is my favorite room in the house. It’s creepy, right?”
I laugh, sinking into one of the chairs, wiggling my toes against the rug. “Only you would be, like, ‘this is creepy, it’s my fave.’”
She throws a smile over her shoulder as she lifts the lid of a fairly decrepit-looking record player. “Fair, but you’re the one who writes murder books,” she reminds me. “So, I thought you’d appreciate an appropriately Gothic hangout on your first night.”
Once again, Chess gets me in a way that no one else does. I like that the house can have these different faces, cozy and soft in the day, a little spooky and grand at night.
Or maybe I’m just more drunk than I thought.
There’s a wooden crate next to the cabinet, and Chess riffles through it now, finally pulling out an album I can’t quite make out. Its cover looks green and faded in the dim light.
“This is very old school,” I tell her. “Very freshman year. You didn’t bring pot, did you?”
Chess snorts at that, taking the album from its sleeve. “I wish. The best I can offer is some CBD oil that tastes like lavender. I’m supposed to be trying it out for the store.”
“Store?”
She places the album on the turntable and lifts the arm. “Yeah, Team Chess is thinking of branching out with our retail arm. We sell the books and some merch on the website, but it might be nice to have little pop-up stores. Maybe eventually some permanent brick-and-mortar places, you know?”
I don’t know, and moments like this are a cold splash of water on my nostalgic musings about how close we are. Her life is so different than mine it’s like we’re practically different species at this point, but I nod anyway.
There’s a hiss as needle meets record, a pause, and then the opening notes of a song I vaguely recognize.