Page 24 of Broken Trust

“How do you figure that?”

“Because I don't want any of it.” I say it slowly so she can hear what I mean. “I can't walk through that front door again and see the table where I lit all those candles, or sleep in the bed where he said her name. If I fight for my share, I’ll spend that time arguing with her, and Mia will make sure that I hurt even more than I have done so far.”

Nella opens her mouth, then shuts it again.

“Mia's paying for that new life with her own daughter,” I go on, and my voice wobbles, but I push through. “One day she'll figure out what she traded away, and it'll be too late. That's her problem, not mine. I'm not wasting another minute fighting over the scraps of my marriage. This time I'm getting out, and I'm staying out.”

The kitchen goes quiet except for the sauce popping on the stove. Nella studies me like I'm somebody she's only just met.

“So you're finally filing,” she says.

“I'm opening my restaurant.”

She blinks. “That's not what I asked you.”

“I'll do it, I promise.” I let out a shaky breath. “But lawyers and papers and money, that's his world, and it's me tidying up after everybody else again. I'm talking about something of my own.” I pull the folder out of the drawer under the counter, the one I've been scribbling in every night for weeks, and drop it in front of her. “Benedetti's place is still empty. I called him on Tuesday. He'll hold it until spring if I can put down a deposit.”

Nella flips it open. There are sketches of the dining room, three drafts of a menu, a list of every farmer and supplier in the valley, and page after page of sums in my tiny handwriting.

“How are you paying for it?” she asks.

“With my own money. The bakery's doing better than I expected, and the Rinaldis want me to cater their granddaughter's christening. I've got Nonna's gold bracelet, and the diamond earrings Mamma gave me for my eighteenth that I've always hated.” I shrug. “It'll take months, maybe longer. But every euro in that place will be one I earned, and not a soul gets to walk in and claim I owe them. Not Mamma, not Papa, not Dante.”

Nella closes the folder, and when she looks up, her eyes are wet.

“You said this weeks ago, when Mia had the baby,” she says.

“I wasn't ready then.” I sit down across from her. “I kept waiting for something. For him to fix it, maybe, or for someone to drive up that track and announce it had all been a terrible mistake.” I glance out the window at the empty road and the chestnut trees heavy with blossom. “The letters have stopped, and I’m okay with that.”

Nella reaches over and grabs both my hands. Hers are still cold from the drive.

“Who are you?” she says, “and what have you done with my little sister?”

“She's making sauce for retirees.”

“I can't fucking wait.” She squeezes so hard my knuckles crack. “Do you hear me? I'm claiming to be the first customer. I'll eat until they have to roll me out the door, and every Sunday I plan to sit in the front window, right when Mamma walks past after Mass, and wave.”

That sets me off, and I laugh so hard I have to wipe my eyes with the back of a floury hand, and then she's laughing too, and for a minute we're kids again, giggling under the covers at Nonna's while the grown-ups argue downstairs.

When we finally calm down, I cut her a thick slice of bread and spread it with butter and a sprinkle of sea salt, the way she's liked it since she was six. She takes a bite and groans like it's the best thing she's had in ages.

“You're wasted on this mountain,” she says with her mouth full.

“Signora Bianchi and her sister would fight you for that.”

I stir Fiorenzo's pot, sample it off the wooden spoon, and add a little more salt. Outside, the wind picks up and rattles the shutters on the porch.

For the first time in months, Dante isn't on my mind. Neither is Mia, or the baby, or the house on the hill. I'm picturing tablecloths, wondering whether the walls should be white or cream, if Benedetti's old espresso machine is worth saving, and what on earth I'm going to call the place.

16

DANTE

The law offices of Moretti and Sons take up the whole top floor of a building on Via Garibaldi, all glass and marble and a receptionist who looks at my scuffed shoes like they might stain her carpet. My own lawyer, Signor Conti, meets me in the lobby. He's sixty-something, rumpled, with reading glasses pushed up on his bald head, and he charges a third of what the Morettis do. I found him in the phone book, which says a lot about where my life is right now.

“Last chance,” Conti says quietly as the elevator climbs. “You don't have to give them everything. Any judge would laugh at half of what they're asking for.”

“I know.”