Merda. This was ridiculous.
He was a grown man who regularly traveled the globe. How the hell could he not find his own home? Cristo stared down another identical alleyway. For the past eight weeks, he’d put this impossible-to-locate address on all his personal documents, but he’d spent a bare nine days inside the property. Even if he found it, it would be a minor miracle if his wife even recognized him.
“Cristoforo!” Mario’s voice rose above the noise from the city’s main square behind him.
Hmm. Could he get his friend to lead him home without revealing he had no idea where it was?
“What are you doing here?” Cristo searched the area but couldn’t see Bella. “You’re alone?”
“I was hoping to see you. Farrah mentioned you were flying home tonight.”
“What’s up?”
“Let’s have a drink. Unless Farrah’s waiting for you for something?”
Just easing three weeks of abstinence. They’d talked every night on the phone, or video conferenced when the Wi-Fi at his hotel was decent enough. He’d have her place the phone or laptop against her belly, and he’d say good night to their baby.
Would she be showing now? Probably not to the world, but when he got her naked… There’d been the tiniest bump on his last trip home, but at this stage the baby was nearly doubling in size every week.
“A drink sounds great. I managed to catch an earlier flight, so Farrah’s not expecting me for a couple of hours yet.” Which was why he’d not wanted her to meet him at the airport. She needed her rest, and his planned 10:00 p.m. arrival seemed too much to ask of her.
Mario took him to a place around the corner that Cristo recognized. They found a quiet table at the back of the restaurant and ordered a pair of whiskies. Cristo waited for the tirade he knew his friend was about to spew.
“Farrah’s not happy,” Mario said after the waiter delivered their drinks.
Cristo stalled, wanting to get his thoughts in order before he spoke. “Why do you say that?”
Mario gave him the same look he had when Cristo had declared that Greece was going to win the 2004 European Championship. Cristo been right about that, but he had a feeling Mario was correct this time.
“I’ve worked with the woman for five years. I know her.”
He resisted the urge to wipe the smile off his friend’s face with a well-placed punch. It gouged him in the heart that Mario knew more about Farrah than he did. And the way things were going, it would be years before they were on even a level footing.
Cristo drained his glass and signaled the waiter for another. “This is what she wanted. A marriage of convenience. Me keeping my job. Her keeping hers. She even wanted me to stay in Sicily. I was the one who insisted we at least share a home address.”
Mario ignored his lame excuse. “You missed her art exhibition. She’d been preparing for it for months. It was really important to her.”
“I know. My flight got canceled due to weather. I sent flowers.”
A not-so-silent snort escaped his friend. “I saw them. I also saw your wife look around the room for someone to tell when every single piece she’d displayed sold. I saw her clench her fist to stop herself from crying when the art critic from the national newspaper asked if he could write an article about her. I also saw her walk by those lame flowers you sent without even stopping to smell them when I made sure she got home safe.”
The waiter delivered his second drink, and Cristo downed it, asking for another before the man had even turned around. Cristo slammed the glass down in front of Mario. “You do not get to lecture me on being a good husband. I was the man who held your distraught wife when they lowered your father’s casket into the ground. I was the man who wiped the tears from your wife’s cheeks when she delivered her first lamb. I was the man who ensured she had food on her table and a roof over her head for six effing years.”
It was Mario’s turn to look like he wanted to punch Cristo’s lights out. They’d been speaking in Italian, so it was unlikely their fellow patrons could understand their argument, but they were getting some strange glances.
When the waiter delivered his third drink, Mario reached across and grabbed it, downing it himself. Recognizing a stalemate, they both tossed money on the table, more than enough to cover twice the number of drinks they’d consumed.
“Go home to your wife, Cristo. But think long and hard about what you want in life,” Mario said as they stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.
“About that. Any chance you could show me where my home is?” That small admission broke the tension between them. Two glasses of whisky each, consumed within ten minutes, probably helped as well.
Mario led him back into the square and down a narrow passage that felt only vaguely familiar. “Cristo, I don’t understand why you’re reluctant to commit to this relationship. You and Farrah clearly have chemistry, and you seem to like each other. With just a little effort, it could be so much more. Your parents are devoted to each other. Don’t you want that for yourself?”
“I absolutely do not want a marriage like my parents have.” That stopped Mario in his tracks. He turned confused eyes toward Cristo.
“My parents… Their marriage is … uneven. My mother dominates the relationship. Papa has done things— Merda, he almost went to prison because of her. He didn’t even have the guts to stand up to her to come to his only son’s wedding.”
“I didn’t know. They always seemed so united, so happy every time I saw them. Is that what you’re worried about—being dominated by Farrah? She’s a strong woman but not a totalitarian.”
“I know that. But let me ask you: would you sacrifice your self-respect for Bella? Would you do something you knew to be wrong?”
“In all honesty—probably. But here’s the thing: I trust that her love for me is as strong as mine is for her. She knows how much my integrity means to me. So she would never ask me to do something that would contravene my principles.”
“Farrah and I don’t have that level of trust.”
“Don’t you? She agreed to marry you.”
“Only because I didn’t give her any other options. She’s so independent. She never asks me for anything.”
“Maybe that’s because she knows you haven’t committed to her.”
“We’re married. That’s the definition of commitment.”
Mario shook his head. “You haven’t committed in your heart. She’s expecting you to leave. She doesn’t want to learn to rely on you only to have that support taken away. You know that by marrying you, under current Tunisian law, she’d lose all rights to your child if you divorced. That’s a pretty big leap of faith if you ask me.”
Cristo didn’t feel the need to enlighten Mario about the prenup if Farrah hadn’t done so. It gave her joint custody and decision-making—plus a decent settlement, although less than he’d offered—if the marriage ended.
But he understood the point Mario was trying to make in his awkward Sicilian-man way. If Cristo wanted more from this marriage, if he wanted Farrah to love him, he had to give her something to love. And that meant being more than a shadow in her life. It meant opening up his heart.
All he had to do was trust she wouldn’t use it to destroy him.
“I asked you to show me the way home, not the path to enlightenment.”
“What can I say? I’m an all-purpose guide.” Mario laughed.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. I received a cryptic message from Batista this afternoon.” Cristo was the conduit between Mario and his Italian lawyer trying to clear him of a triple-homicide charge back in Sicily.
The laughter disappeared instantly. “What did it say?”
“That the house is full of termites and the exterminator is on site. He’s hoping you’ll be able to return and renovate within a year.”
“I’m assuming he means that there are now undercover agents on the inside of the organized crime ring Della Vedova is heading, and they hope to bring it down soon.”
“That was my guess as well. Will you tell Bella?”
“No. Not until I hear that I’m free to return to Sicily. She still calls and asks about the farm weekly. Yet she claims not to have any desire to return and check things for herself.”
“I’ll pop in next time I’m there and report back.” Although with the dead air between him and his parents, he had no real reason to visit. That was another issue in his life, one he thrust to the back of his mind as often as possible. For now, making it up to his wife for missing her art exhibition was his number-one priority.
“I’m sure Bella would appreciate that. I’ll let you go now. If you’re here for more than a day or two, come by for dinner or at least a drink.”
Cristo just nodded. He was supposed to leave again in two days, and as much as he enjoyed spending time with his friends, he’d rather pass the few hours he had alone with Farrah. If she was still speaking to him.
They slapped each other on the back and then Cristo unlocked the door and stepped into the courtyard. Candles flickered; the scent of lemons lingered in the air. But there was something about the place that just didn’t say home to him. It wasn’t until Farrah leaned over the balustrade and a huge smile lit her face that he felt welcomed.
“Azizity, I’m home,” he said in Arabic.
Her smile got even bigger, and she called out a bunch of things he couldn’t understand as she raced down the stairs. He hurried to her, worried she might trip and injure herself and the baby.
Yeah, that was the reason he couldn’t wait to get his wife in his arms. Had nothing to do with the feeling of inadequacy that overwhelmed him every time he said goodbye.
Farrah’s body pressed against his, on the other hand…
“I missed you,” he said against her lips, again in Arabic. The only good thing about them being apart was the time he could devote to learning her language. Although her lessons, with both of them naked, certainly were more pleasurable. He kissed her like he would never let her go again.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said when they finally broke apart for some air.
“I met up with Mario for a few minutes. I’m sorry I missed your exhibition, cara. I promise to be around for the next one. I will come home the week before just so I don’t risk not getting back in time.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and stretched on tiptoe to kiss him lightly. “That’s okay. I enjoyed it, but it was too stressful.” He winced. He should have been here to support and reassure her. “My real joy comes from teaching others.”
“Maybe I could come on one of your trips, then?”
Her eyes lit up. Dio, it was like he’d just given her a puppy. “You’d do that? You’d come to one of our villages?”
He must have been vying for worst husband of the decade if she was that surprised. “Of course. We’ll—”
“—coordinate our schedules.” She finished his sentence and pulled out of his arms at the same time. “Have you eaten? Nura made a delicious meal of lamb and couscous, and there’s plenty left over. I’m sure she doesn’t think I can cook for myself.”
“Are they still here?”
“No, they left about an hour ago.” Her phone rang. “That’s probably them making sure you showed up. If you weren’t home by eleven, Hussein was threatening to come back until you arrived.” She sounded a bit annoyed, like she was trying to ditch a chaperone. She answered the phone, spoke a few words to Hussein in Arabic, and hung up.
“They’re just doing their jobs.”
“Oh, I know. And I love them. I’m just not used to having people around me all the time. Of course, once the baby comes, I understand I’ll never have a moment alone. Do you know that every mother I’ve spoken to has had to go to the toilet with a child on their lap?”
“I’ll be here.”
She stopped and looked him in the eye. “Will you?”
His heart stalled. This is not what he wanted in life. His job title and salary should not be his measure of success. All his ambition, his desire to be the youngest board member of his bank, would mean nothing if his family could barely remember what he looked like. He wanted to be home every night to put his kid to bed. He wanted to wake every morning next to his wife. He wanted to argue good-naturedly over whose turn it was to do the dishes and get yelled at for leaving his socks on the bathroom floor.
They were married in law but not reality. Instead, they had some kind of warped affair where he showed up now and then, made love to her, then disappeared into the mist or, in North African parlance, into the heat wave. He was a mirage husband. And it sucked.
“Farrah, do you like this house?”
“It’s nice.”
“But you don’t love it.”
Her eyes searched his. “Where are you going with this, Cristo? It’s a beautiful house, very spacious. I have no complaints.”
“Did you know I can’t even find it on my own? I had to get Mario to bring me here.” Her genuine laughter lightened his heart. “Let’s find another place. A house we both love. Preferably one I can locate. A place that feels like home, where we can raise our children.”
“Really?” Again, her joy was like a kick in the teeth. How had he not realized she was so unhappy here?
Because you’re never here!
“We’ll start looking tomorrow.”
Her smile was tight. “How long will you be home this time?”
He could read the real question in her eyes. Was he going to blow in, disrupt her life, and then blow out again like an ill wind?
He could delay his next trip a few days. “About a week, I hope.” Hardly enough time to find a new home and relocate.
She kissed him again, too quickly, then bustled into the kitchen. “Did you want something?”
“Just you.” He put his hands on her hips and drew her back against him. Her hair was done up in an elaborate braid, giving him unfettered access to her neck. While his lips trailed down from her ear to her shoulder, his hands slid around to her lower abdomen. There was a gentle swelling. The next time he saw her, would he be able to hold her close? How much of this pregnancy and his child’s life was he going to miss? He closed his eyes.
“I need to send an email,” he said.
He felt rather than heard her exhalation. “I’ll wait for you upstairs.”
Pulling out his phone, he stared at the screen for a moment before opening his email. Addressing a message to his boss and HR, he typed, I hereby resign from my position as senior vice president, regulatory affairs.
***
Farrah woke to her customary mint-and-ginger tea sitting on the bedside table. Thankfully, the morning sickness had lessened after she passed her fourteenth week and now only bothered her if she was too tired or hadn’t eaten properly. But still Cristo brought it to her each morning.
She couldn’t believe he’d quit his job. Or tried to, anyway. The day after their discussion about moving to a new house, he’d spent two hours on a video conference call as his boss and another man tried to talk him out of his decision. He’d finally agreed to consult and attend meetings virtually, but he wasn’t traveling more than one week a month.
At first, she’d been a little skeptical about how it would work. Would he be underfoot all the time, asking her to take time off to spend with him? She was trying to complete as many village visits as she could in the next three months before she got too uncomfortable to travel. And after much research and deliberation, she’d conceded that Yemen was just too volatile for her to visit at this time.
Fortunately, Cristo kept regular office hours. He’d bring her tea, they’d breakfast together, then he’d go into the home study while she commuted to the office she shared with Mario and Bella. Occasionally, he’d meet her for lunch, or after work and they’d go for dinner. More often she’d come home and they’d cook together, chat, and argue over whose turn it was to clean up. It wasn’t much of an argument, really. She’d start, and he’d come in and tell her to sit down—it was his turn. She’d complain about being babied, and he’d sweep her off her feet, carry her back into the sitting room, and make love to her until her legs didn’t work.
The next morning, Nura would finish the dishes, prepare breakfast, and do any other housework while Hussein drove Farrah to work. The older couple went home in the late afternoon, and it would be just Farrah and Cristo until the next morning, when the whole routine would start again.
Cristo strode into the room, drying his hair with a towel but otherwise naked. Would she ever get enough of his body or his loving? Would her heart ever stop accelerating when he smiled at her? She hoped not.
Each night he’d put his mouth against her bump and tell the baby not to worry about any earthquakes it might feel in the next little while. It was just Papa showing Mommy a good time. And he did. He was a fabulous husband and father-to-be. More than she could ever have dreamed.
He was her ideal man. It should have been enough for her. So why did it still feel like something was missing?
“We need to choose tile for the courtyard today. Do you want me to send you photos so you can select what you want?” He sat next to her legs on the bed and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. They’d bought a property desperately in need of renovation on the outskirts of town. Surprisingly, Mario and Bella had also purchased land not far from there, because Bella wanted to have at least a few animals. She missed her farm.
“No, I trust your judgment. Everything you’ve chosen so far has been gorgeous.”
“Especially you.”
She smiled at his blatant flattery. He was good at it, but she’d rather hear that he loved her. Because she was beginning to suspect that’s what she felt for him. She smiled when he walked into the room. She couldn’t wait to get home, tell him about her day, and listen to his recap. His laugh made her laugh. And for the first time, she felt she was enough to hold him forever.
Every once in a while, she worried that she’d wake one day and the tea would be gone. In its place would be a note from Cristo saying he was bored and asking her to let him know when the baby was born. But that was her insecurities talking. Her husband was so attentive that she sometimes wondered what exactly was written in that pregnancy book he kept referring to but wouldn’t let her read.
“I like the idea of having a mosaic floor and plain walls. What do you think?” Cristo’s question brought her back to the discussion about the house.
“Sounds beautiful.” She took a sip of her tea. “Are you still able to come with me tomorrow? Or has the delay with the house impacted your plans?”
“I’m coming. I can’t wait to see firsthand what you do.”
“And when will I get to see the house?”
“Soon. I want to surprise you.” He moved toward his closet.
She sipped her tea and tried not to look worried. So far, their relationship had been nothing but surprises. “I had a text from your cousin Sabrina yesterday. She said as soon as we’re in our new place, she and Carlos would like to come for a visit.”
Farrah received periodic messages from Cristo’s relatives—just friendly chats, letting her know what was happening with the family in Sicily and asking how things were going in Tunisia.
She always painted a picture of an ideal marriage and made no mention of her pregnancy. If Cristo had told his family about the baby, he’d never said. Although she wouldn’t be surprised if they’d guessed, given their sudden engagement and rushed wedding. Was Sabrina’s request to visit an attempt to discern the real state of her and Cristo’s relationship and see Farrah’s swollen belly for herself? At least now, if she came to visit, Cristo would be home.
“That would be nice. Of all my cousins, Sabrina is the one I like the most. We’re close.”
“Do you think your aunt Beatrice would come as well if we invited her?” As far as extended family was concerned, their baby was going to be shortchanged on both sides. Although Cristo was now around to make the two-day drive to her village, she wasn’t yet ready to attempt a reconciliation with her father. One unsettled relationship in her life was enough.
Cristo, now wearing a pair of boxer shorts, returned to the bed, sitting next to her thighs. He ran a light caress over her collarbone, raising a flush on her skin that made him smile.
“I’m sure Zia Beatrice would love to visit. Why the sudden interest in my family?”
“It’s not sudden. I think about them all the time. Have you spoken to your parents yet?”
His eyes searched hers. “I’ve called a couple of times. The conversations have been very brief. There’s no change on their end.”
“Cristo—”
He put his finger on her lips. “Don’t, Farrah. There’s nothing to be done. I’m finished playing their games. If they want to talk to me, they have my number.” He rose from the bed and strolled over to the walk-in closet. “I have a conference call in ten minutes, so I can’t breakfast with you. Promise me you’ll eat something,” he called out. The change of topic was not unexpected. He did it every time she so much as hinted he should go see his parents in person so they couldn’t just hang up the phone on him.
“I promise.” She slipped on her wrap and wandered over to his closet. Leaning against the doorframe, she watched him dress in one of his thousand-euro suits. He’d given up so much for her and the baby, she was still in awe of the sacrifice. “Do you miss it?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand her question. “Not as much as I missed you when I was away. I have no regrets”—his gaze bore into hers, the green in his eyes heightened by some emotion she couldn’t name—“about anything.”
The lyrics to Edith Piaf’s song about no regrets drifted through her mind. The last line lingered the longest. Her life, her joy, also now started with Cristo.