Chapter 3

Matteo drove me to the cleaner that afternoon. Whatever happened to the wedding, I wasn't leaving my mother's coat behind if I could help it.

The woman at the counter unzipped the garment bag. I knew before she lifted it free. The waist had been taken in, the train shortened, the pearl-covered cuffs narrowed.

“Who authorized this?”

She glanced at my brother.

Matteo loosened his tie. “Valentina couldn't see how it was supposed to sit. I asked them to pin it.”

“This isn't pinned.”

“The alterations can be reversed.”

I turned back the cuff. My mother's neat stitches had been replaced by a hurried line of white thread, and several pearls tilted sideways.

“She spent four months making this.”

“I know. That's why Luca and I worked so hard to find everything.” He sounded hurt that I needed reminding. “We wanted you to have her with you.”

“Then why did you let someone else change it?”

He looked toward the window. “Valentina had a bad night. She said all anyone would remember was that she wasn't really one of us.”

When Luca brought me flowers after my first college exhibition, Valentina locked herself in a bathroom because her father hadn't lived to see hers. Luca missed our dinner waiting outside the door. When Matteo promised me a weekend in Boston, she developed a terror of being alone, and he spent it teaching her to drive instead.

I understood grief. I had never understood why hers kept requiring the cancellation of my happiness.

“She's had years of bad nights,” I said.

Matteo rubbed his forehead. “I can't believe we're doing this over a coat.”

The woman behind the counter became very interested in her computer.

I asked for an assessment in writing. The original seam allowance might have been cut away; I wanted a conservator's opinion before anyone touched it again.

“Please keep the coat here until I've seen the report,” I told the woman. “Don't release it to anyone else.”

Matteo looked surprised that I knew what to ask.

Luca's car waited outside. He got out when he saw me, his expression softening despite whatever message had been on his phone.

“Hey.” He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “You haven't been sleeping.”

For a moment, I nearly leaned into him. Then I saw the white bakery box on the passenger seat.

Lemon-raspberry cake. My mother used to make it for my birthday.

“You remembered,” I said before I could stop myself.

Luca glanced at the box. “Valentina hasn't eaten since breakfast. Would you take it inside when Matteo drops you home?”

He saw my face and stopped.

“Emilia. I'm sorry. They only had one. I'll order another for you.”

For nine years, that cake hadn't been allowed in the house. Valentina had become ill after a slice, and everyone assumed she was allergic to raspberries. Nobody wanted to risk upsetting her by having it around.

“What happened to her allergy?”

Luca looked at Matteo, then back at me.

“She was tested last month. Apparently that wasn't what made her sick.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“I didn't think.” He set the box on the car roof and reached for my hand. “That sounds awful. I know it does.”

I let him take my fingers for a moment. He was looking at me properly now, worried and earnest, and I hated how much I still wanted to stay where he could see me.

Then his phone rang. Valentina's photograph filled the screen.

“Give me a second,” he said.

I stepped back while he answered. By the time he looked up, I was in Matteo's car, sending a message to Adrienne Laurent, my mother's longtime business partner in Paris.

Keep the flight. I'll be there tomorrow.