“The herbs,” I explain. “Helps the appetite. And the nerves.”
Her mouth twitches. “Who’s nervous?”
I pull out her chair. “Both of us.”
She doesn’t sit just yet, just holds my eyes.
“Really?” she asks quietly.
“Really,” I assure her.
Finally, she nods and moves to sit.
I wait until she does, then take the other seat, close enough to talk, but far enough that she has space.
Vivian appears with two tall glasses with a whisper of ginger syrup, lemon along the rim. “Ginger and lemon for the nausea,” I offer.
She looks at me questioningly.
“I have a long memory.” I pick up the carafe and pour. The ice answers with a clean, bright crack.
Beyond us, a dragonfly needles the air over the water and veers off. Inside, a timer chimes once, distant. The smells drift out—lemon broth, faint fennel, warm bread.
“I was thinking,” I say, “broth first. Something simple. Then a little grilled branzino, farro with roasted tomatoes, and a cucumber–mint salad. How does that sound?”
She eyes the table, then me. “Better than a quick sandwich before court in the afternoon.”
“That’s not a high bar, is it?”
She laughs. “I guess not.”
I pick up my glass and drink, watching her over the rim. “How are you?”
She considers, then answers honestly. “Better than this morning. Still… floating.”
“Good.” I let out a small breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Vivian returns with a small tray holding bowls of clear golden broth, lemon zest glinting on the surface, a thin ribbon of olive oil catching the light; two pieces of warm focaccia wrapped in a napkin. She sets them down and is gone before the steam has escaped.
Elena cups the bowl with both hands and closes her eyes for a second. The tension in her jaw eases. “Okay,” she says, almost to herself. “This I can handle.”
“Start with small,” I say. “We can add big later.”
“Big,” she repeats, eyes flicking to mine. The ultrasound strip burns in my pocket.
We eat in an easy silence. The pool ticks softly as the filter cycles. A breeze sends the scent of herbs swirling around us.
She sets the bowl down, color back in her face. “This is… perfect.”
“I’m glad.” I slide the small bread basket closer. “Salt helps,” I say then, because truth is a better foundation, I add: “It did with Carlotta anyway.”
“Did she get sick a lot?” She picks up a piece of bread and tears the corner.
“With Lucia and Vito, yes. Not so much with Nico and Caterina.”
To that, she just nods and nibbles on bread.
I get the feeling she doesn’t want to talk about that right now.
