“I think…” she said slowly. “I think whoever sent those flowers to Maggie Beautiful has sent them before. Those flowers are to the sender what roses are for you and me. A representation that she didn’t want to be reminded of.”
“Nemours?”
“Why? Or better yet,how? How would he know? He doesn’t share a history with Maggie Beautiful.”
“True,” I said. “Ettore.”
“Why again?”
I sighed. “He doesn’t know much about her.”
“Though I caught him watching her a few times. All of your uncles did. That’s why the wives of the married ones really don’t like her. Jealousy is a bitter pill.”
“One that you have no cause to ever swallow.”
“Time and place, Fausti,” she said on a grin. “I only swallow the pill when it has to do with you.”
I took her hand in mine. “All the more reason not to. I’m the most secure thing in your life. And the strongest.”
She nodded but didn’t comment. “Wildflowers, Brando.”
“Is she having an affair on Aberto?”
“No,” Scarlett said, no doubt in her answer. “She cares for him too much.”
“You’ve figured this out.” It wasn’t a question. I could tell by the relief in her voice that she had, but it was replaced by something else, severe hesitation.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I believe I have.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you really want to hear this?”
I was silent for so long that she fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
Brando
The ritzy hotel opened its doors for us before we stepped out of the Bentley. Scarlett’s parents had arrived a minute before us, and their hired Rolls Royce still idled at the curb, waiting to merge into traffic. Behind us, Charlotte and Travis waited for us to exit.
Once the Rolls took its leave, we rolled forward, and the line scooted up.
Everett wanted to make a statement this weekend and had secured countless rooms for family and all of their closest friends. Pnina had thrown a fit about us driving home after Scarlett put up a fight. The weather was supposed to turn severe, enough to make the roads dangerous. So we were there for the weekend.
“This is so overwhelming.” Scarlett sighed.
I glanced at her. Her head was close to resting against the window, ready to start thumping. I took her hand and squeezed.
“All of this?” I motioned to the opulent building. “Or them?”
A group of young girls hovered around outside of the hotel, huddled together. Some of them had cameras around their necks. A couple of them were taking pictures of the car. A few were holding posters of Scarlett in numerous dance positions. They were all bundled to the teeth.
“I’m not ready to take on this weekend.”
“Ready or not,” I said.
The attendant hustled out, opening our door. “Mr. and Mrs. Fausti,” he said. “Welcome to the St. Regis.”
