Adriana stood before her open refrigerator and hoped the cold would clear her mind. How could she explain her absence to Jian Carlo? She had never gone out by herself after dark until the gallery show, let alone stayed out all night. Jian Carlo would demand an explanation. She’d better make it good.
The truth, or as close to the truth as she could come, would be best.
I went to Copacabana for guidance, and Yemanjá told me it’s time for me to leave our marriage.
She repeated the words in her head until they flowed with confidence. She would not tell Jian Carlo about the joyous freedom and profound connection she had felt with Michael and how this had led her to do the unthinkable. Nor would she tell him how she yearned to do it again. But if she did not share these truths, how could she make him understand? How could she convince him to let her go?
Adriana was under no illusions that she could simply file for divorce—she had already tried that and failed. It had only infuriated Jian Carlo and caused him to tighten his control. Although he obviously didn’t want her, he wouldn’t let her go. He wore her on his arm like an ornament, put her on a shelf, and took her down again when he needed a target on which to vent. She had no money of her own and had lost all contact with her family and friends. Meanwhile, Jian Carlo had wealth, power, and vindictiveness.
Adriana shuddered as she remembered the things he had done.
“You’re up early,” he said, jolting the refrigerator door out of her hand.
She yelped in surprise and braced herself for the inquisition.
“Move over. I’m thirsty.”
He brought out a bottle of soursop juice and set it on the counter.
“We have to fend for ourselves today.”
He retrieved a glass from the cupboard.
“Irma will be back by evening. I think she left pão de queijo somewhere around here. Find it, will you? And fix us some cafezinho.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Adriana? Coffee? You do know how to make it?”
“Sim. Of course.”
Was it possible that he didn’t know?
She found the puffs of cheesy bread in a bakery bag on the counter and poured them onto a plate while Jian Carlo settled himself on a counter stool. Then she set about making the coffee.
“Why is there sand on the floor?” he said. “I can feel it stuck to my feet.”
“Really?” She examined the area and surreptitiously checked her sandals. They were clean, but a few grains of sand still clung to her ankle. She rubbed the top of her foot down her calf to shed the damning evidence.
Jian Carlo frowned. “I give Irma the night off and this is how she thanks me? By tracking sand into my kitchen? If I had known, I would have made her stay and clean it up.”
He stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth and chewed.
“It’s just a few grains,” she said. “I’ll clean it up.”
Jian Carlo grunted his approval and turned his attention to the newspaper. With luck, the sand would be forgotten before Irma returned. If not, Adriana would take the blame. In the meantime, she waited for Jian Carlo to say something—anything—about her absence.
Finally, after finishing the last bit of bread and coffee, he folded the paper and shoved himself away from the counter.
“I’m going to lay by the pool and enjoy the morning sun, maybe even take a nap.”
She stared in bafflement. That was it? Nothing else? They had spent the second most important Brazilian holiday apart from each other for the first time in their marriage and he was going to the pool? Did their failing relationship not at least deserve an honest discussion or, failing that, a show of interest?
“How was your evening with the distributors?” she asked, acutely aware that her inquiry would likely invite one of his own.
Jian Carlo hummed in thought, a smug expression on his face.
This was what he had been waiting for. She should have kept her mouth shut and let him go. There were quite a few things she should have done—chief among them not marrying Jian Carlo.
She braced herself for the inevitable castigation.
Instead he chuckled. “It was a profitable and enjoyable evening,” and wandered out to the pool.