I know nothing, of course.
Everyone seemed to think she jumped or fell off the cliff that day ten years ago, but the reality is, nobody knows what happened—except her.
“Tomorrow’s grocery day,” I add as I raid the fridge, grabbing condiments and a dwindling loaf of bread. Wednesdays are typically reserved for household shopping, but with Luca being gone this week, I only made a minirun. Fridays are for date nights. Saturdays are for family outings. Sundays are for lounging. We have a whole system—one that’s existed for years. One that’s perfect for us. One that may forever cease to exist the second my husband walks in the door tonight.
“Still likes his bread cold, I see.” Lydia nods toward the sliced rye wrapped in cellophane, which until a few moments ago, was taking up valuable shelf space next to the butter. Pressing her index finger against her temple, she adds, “I remember these things. It was never just the almonds.”
I almost make a joke of it, almost point out all the other things he unnecessarily prefers to keep refrigerated—like peanut butter, potatoes, blackberries, and hot sauce. But I bite my tongue. This isn’t an exchange meant for pleasantries. There’s nothing cute about this.
This moment is bigger than the two of us. Viscous. Swathed in a million unknowns.
“You can have a seat at the table if you’d like.” I work in haste to make her sandwich as the weight of her stare anchors me to the floor. When I’m finished, I wipe my trembling hands on a kitchen towel and deliver her turkey-on-rye with a tight smile.
She doesn’t touch it. Not at first. She studies it.
Like she doesn’t trust it.
I fuss with my hair before sweeping it over one shoulder. “We have mustard. Yellow and Dijon.”
I sound like an idiot—and I’m realizing now she didn’t even say yes to my offer to make her a sandwich, nor did she confirm she was hungry. But it’s too late now. I don’t know how to make any of this less awkward. There’s nothing natural about marrying a widower, having his children, spending years crafting our dream life—and then answering the door to his dead wife.
All the things I’ve gleaned about Lydia over the years have been mostly via archived library articles and internet searches. Luca has never liked to talk about her . . . or what happened. It was a painful period in his life, and marrying him meant respecting that. My husband isn’t a scab picker or a dweller. Not since he closed the door on his painful history.
Lydia may be his past.
But I’m his present—and forever—wife.
The sandwich dwarfs her hand as her fingertips press into the dark bread. When she finally lifts one corner to her mouth, relief sweeps through me. This is a good sign.
Maybe we can make this work? There’s a chance this can be peaceful and amicable, and we can handle this like the dignified adults that we are.
I fill a glass with seven crescent-shaped ice cubes and retrieve a bottled Fiji water from the fridge, placing both in front of her. She didn’t ask for that, either, but it’d be rude not to offer her a beverage.
“I can make you something stronger if you need,” I say. “Wine? Vodka?”
Warmth blankets my cheeks as I realize the undercurrent of what I’ve just said. I might as well have told her she looks worse for the wear. But we both know she’s not the edgy one in this situation. Her eyes appear more rested than the last time I saw her. No dark circles this time. Her hair is shorter, too. And a healthy color flushes her complexion. It’s truly as though she’s come back from the dead.
Our eyes lock as she swallows her bite with a blank expression.
I brace myself in silent hopes that I haven’t offended her.
“This is fine. Thank you,” she says after an endless pause. Her attention drifts to the icy glass, then back to me.
I remain planted, hesitant to take a seat beside her, because every atom in my body is restless, and having to sit perfectly still in a chair would be torture. Plus, if I keep myself moving, I might be less tempted to fire off a round of preliminary questions before Luca has a chance to ask a single one. It wouldn’t be fair to him.
It’s been only a few minutes since Lydia arrived, but each second that passes might as well be an hour. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tuck my fingers beneath my arms to keep from fidgeting.
The clock on the microwave reads eleven past eight when Luca’s headlights flash through the kitchen window. The garage door opens with a slow, whining grind.
My lips shake, wavy and numb. “He’s home.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
LYDIA
I shove my dry turkey sandwich aside and follow Merritt’s gaze toward a dark hallway off the kitchen. A door opens and closes with a soft click, followed by footsteps on hardwood and the roll of a suitcase. A moment later, a shadowed masculine figure fills the doorway.
“Mer?” he asks when he steps into the light. His thin lips arch into a tender smile when he sees her, and he sniffs out an amused chuckle. Funny—I don’t recall ever putting a spark like that in his dark irises. “Why are you just standing there like that?”
“Luca, there’s someone here to see you.” Merritt’s hands are tucked under her arms, and her focus shifts to the island countertop.
He didn’t notice me at his kitchen table when he walked in. And why would he? I doubt he’s thought of me in a while, and I’m the last person he’d expect to be hanging out with his wife under the comfort of his multimillion-dollar roof.
“Hi, Luca.” I rise and keep my tone sweet. “It’s been a long time.”
His eyes narrow as he takes a step back, and his complexion lightens five shades, as if he’s just seen a ghost. Merritt runs a hand across her belly, her attention flicking from our husband to me and back.
“What . . .” His breathy voice fades as he takes a step toward the table. A second later, he braces himself on a chair back, unable to peel his disbelieving scrutiny off me. “How . . . how is this possible?”
“I thought we could all sit down and she could . . . fill us in?” Merritt abandons her perch by the marble island and makes her way over, her pregnant frame occupying the six-foot difference that separates us.
A power move?
A wordless reminder of her place in this equation?
I’m not sure what else to call it.
Luca’s jaw slackens as his stare drifts to hers. I’m certain a million scenarios are screaming through his mind—understandably. The dynamic he’s come to know and love is shifting in real time, faster than this restaurateur-slash-family-man can keep up with.
“Lydia, why don’t you sit back down and get comfortable?” Merritt gestures to my chair. “Luca, settle in. We’ve got a lot to unpack here.”
He says nothing, simply swallowing and sinking into the chair at the head of the table. All that separates us is Merritt and the dead weight of silence lingering in the pine-and-sea-salt-scented air.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning—when you went missing?” Merritt suggests with a careful gentleness in her tone.
One would think my husband should be spearheading this conversation, not his expectant wife, who has nothing to do with us, but it seems the proverbial cat has got his tongue.