Chapter 24

Amanda, 1940

In the darkness of the street, the light coming from Nicolas’s study shone as bright as the sun. He was awake, and Amanda knew there was no means of sneaking into the house without him hearing the front door. She slowed her pace, trying to come up with a lie good enough for him to believe. Not that he ever complained. That was the hardest part of all, lying to someone who knew you were being dishonest but pretended not to notice.

With trembling fingers, she slid her key into the lock and turned the doorknob. From the foyer of their two-story home—one of the newest and most beautiful constructions in all of San Isidro—she heard two male voices coming from the study. Since they were speaking Italian and one of them was yelling, it was fair to assume that Nicolas was talking to his brother.

Enzo, as usual, was the loudest one. When they spoke this fast, Amanda couldn’t understand them, but it was obvious that this wasn’t a regular visit. Enzo never came over this late, and although he was an ill-tempered man, she’d never heard him this upset.

Across the foyer was the staircase. Only a few meters away. If only she could cross the study threshold without being seen. But the study door was wide open. She removed her heels and took a step toward the stairs. Maybe they were distracted enough not to notice her.

“Sei pazzo, Nicolas,” Enzo shouted. “Pazzo e cieco!”

Enzo darted out of the study in such haste his chest bumped into Amanda’s shoulder, nearly dropping her to the floor, as though she’d been struck by a brick wall.

“Oh, here she is!” he said. “The model wife.”

Enzo glared into Amanda’s eyes with such hatred that for a minute she thought he would choke her.

“Vai via, Enzo!” Nicolas told him from his desk.

That Amanda understood, and was grateful that her husband was telling this imbecile to leave.

Enzo slammed the door shut. Amanda hid her shoes behind her back.

Nicolas remained seated, his hands resting on the sides of his leather chair.

“Did you have a good time, cara mia?”

Did she? Yes, the best time of her life. But now the remorse was back, the self-loathing, the chagrin. She nodded, eyes moistening. Things could have been so perfect between Nicolas and her.

“Bene,” he said. “Now if you don’t mind, I still have work to do.”

Work. At a moment like this. Of course, work was the only thing on Nicolas’s mind. Once she thought it was just devotion, a sense of responsibility to his parents’ memory, and she’d admired him for it. Now she knew work was all he had. Work was his excuse, his way of avoiding the truth, his escape.

Sometimes she wished he would just confront her. Tell her what he really thought. How disappointed he was in her, how much she’d failed him. But at other times, she wondered if he knew at all or if he even cared.

She stepped inside the room, playing with the strap of her shoes. A nearly-empty bottle of wine and a glass—just one—sat on his desk, besides his papers.

“Nicolas, we need to talk.”

He wrote on a piece of paper.

“I know, Nico. I’ve known for a long time.”

He wrote faster, the ink of his stylograph staining his fingers.

She left her shoes on one of the chairs and rested her hands on the desk.

“Nicolas.”

He didn’t look at her.

“Amanda dear, this is really not a good time. I have a lot to do.”

He was signing papers, writing quickly. She felt like shaking him and forcing the truth out of him. But she could never humiliate him like that. She knew he would never admit to anything. He would rather die first. That was the kind of man he was. He would rather carry his own burdens until he exploded than share them with someone, even someone whom he loved.

Amanda knew Nicolas loved her—as much as he could love a woman, anyway. Just not the way she wanted to be loved. If only he were mean to her, the way Rafael was to Ana, she would have an excuse to leave him. But what excuse did she have? He was the most considerate and splendid husband in town.

What would he do if she left?

She glanced at the wine bottle on his desk. There had been lots of bottles before this one, and she was certain there would be more. His reputation meant everything to him. He was willing to sacrifice his own happiness for it, and he had. She’d seen the sadness in his eyes, she’d heard him pacing in the living room at night, and she’d seen the bottles disappear from the pantry one by one. She couldn’t in good conscience cause him any more unhappiness. She loved him too much.

“Good night, mi amor,” she said, turning around.

She heard him pouring more wine as she left the room.