“You tell that chef you’ll be back within six months, you hear me?”
I can still see her braced against the sink, one hand in the air like a conductor, worry coloring her features. “And you text mewhen you land. And when you take off. And if anyone looks at you funny on that airplane—”
“Mama,” I said, laughing even though my stomach was tight. “I’m going for my knives and my clothes. I’ll talk to Chef. I’ll be back in a week.”
“A week,” she repeated, suspicious. “With that man.”
“With my boss,” I corrected. “Who is letting me have the time to do this and also taking me there for free.”
“Nothing is free, Bianca,” she said desperately. “When will you learn this?”
“I know, Mama,” I say. “I know that. That’s not what I mean. I mean, without the expensive last-minute ticket. That’s all. I’m not naïve.”
“I know, Bibi.” She’d gone quiet for a beat, then softer: “Wear a sweater. Planes are cold.”
Now, the sedan rolls to a stop beside the nose of the plane. The driver is already at my door. Jet fuel and cold air sweep in when the door opens.
I step out and smooth my coat like it will smooth my nerves.
The plane is sleek and compact, the perfect white that only ever exists on vehicles that don’t spend time in grocery store parkinglots. The stairs gleam. The cabin door is open, light spilling warm onto the tarmac.
Giovanni turns at the sound. No smile. Just a quick assessment grips my lungs like a hand. Dark coat, scarf loose, hair pushed back by the wind. He doesn’t move toward me until I’m clear of the car.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” My breath ghosts in the air. I tuck my fingers into my pockets so I don’t do something stupid like reach for him. “Is this…” I glance at the plane like an idiot who’s never seen one before. “Yours?”
“Yes,” he says. He tips his chin to the stairs. “We can go straight up. They’ll shut the door after us.”
“Right.” I pull my passport from my pocket and show it to no one because there’s no one to show it to. I put it back.
At the stairs, he steps aside for me to pass. He offers a hand, and I reluctantly take it.
Inside, the cabin is warm leather and quiet. Two cream chairs face two more with a small table between; a sofa runs along the far wall. A flight attendant with a neat bun and a name tag that says S. Alvarez smiles like it’s not 6:00 in the morning.
“Good morning, Mr. Conti. Ms. Marcelli.” She gestures to the forward seats. “Coffee?”
“Please,” I say.
“Two,” he echoes.
I slide into the seat by the window and buckle in. He takes the seat across from me, drops his coat over the back, and rests one hand on the armrest.
Through the oval window, a small truck pulls away from the wing. A guy on the ground gives a thumbs-up. Engines spool, a deeper sound. The plane shifts under my feet.
The attendant sets down two small cups and a plate with two croissants and a cluster of raspberries. “We’ll taxi in three,” she says. “Call if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He watches me, not intrusive, just observant. “You sleep at all?”
“A little.” I wrap my hands around the cup. The heat goes straight into my fingers. “You?”
“Enough.”
Silence settles, not uncomfortable. The plane nudges into motion, the low roll of wheels humming loudly through the cabin floor. I take a sip. It’s good coffee. Of course it is.
He turns his wrist, checks nothing in particular, then looks back at me. “You brought what you need?”
