“And Moretti?”
“Oh, my uncle says my Moretti side was going to show up eventually.” She laughed. “The criminal side.”
“Really?” I smiled into my wine.
She side-eyed me, sipped her wine, and then side-eyed me again.
“Out with it,” I said. “You want to ask me something.” Not sure I was going to answer, but if we were in a sharing mood, then why not? I found myself on board with information given freely rather than rounded up from an investigator’s two-dimensional report. Text and images on paper or a flat computer screen were unsatisfying, especially when it came to my wife’s infinitely intriguing personality.
“You were in Russia for a while.”
It was fortunate that the waiter showed up with the charcuterie board. I even asked him to give us a rundown of what was on it. The usual suspects of salami, ham, and cheeses. I didn’t really care except that it gave me time to come up with a response.
When the waitstaff left, I said, “You can have all the brie and black olives.”
“You don’t like cheese and olives?”
“Just soft cheeses. The exception is when it’s on pizza. I like the green olives.”
“They’re higher in salt,” Lucy replied.
“Maybe that’s why I like them.”
“I like brie,” she mused.
“Is there anything you don’t eat?” I asked. “Allergies I should know of?”
The clenching and mulish set of her jaw hinted at a sudden chill in our conversation. “No. You?”
“No allergies. Just an aversion to rabbit.”
I speared one of the coveted entries on the board, the Iberico ham. “Here, you can have this.”
Then I figured out why she shut down on me. Or at least guessed. “I’m not using your allergies against you. Otherwise, I would have already since they’re on your medical chart.”
She stared at her plate. “Can you blame me?”
I sighed. “Any physical discomfort you might feel doesn’t sit well with me. Having you erupt in hives turns my stomach the same way as the idea of you going hungry.”
Was it not too long ago when I was lamenting how Viktor had failed to kill her? The thought of that now more than twisted my gut. It gave me stabs of anxiety and kept me awake at night. What if Viktor had succeeded and erased my wife’s existence? I pictured the seat beside me devoid of Lucy.
That insidious hollowness dropped its anchor in my gut. I swallowed a gulpful of wine, hoping it would chase that void away.
Meanwhile, Lucy seemed oblivious to my unexpected and unwelcome spiral. She appeared to be contemplating my words, helping herself to ham and more wine. The door to the rooftop opened again, admitting Sato into the area.
“You had him get my coat?” Lucy asked.
“Amongst other things,” I muttered. “You don’t have to wear it unless my jacket is not enough.”
“But you must be feeling cold.” She made a move to remove it, but I stopped her. It pleased me to see her wearing my clothes.
“I spent months in the icy parts of Russia. I’m used to the cold.”
Sato folded the coat over the chair in front of us while he was about to hand Lucy a pouch. I intercepted it.
“You asked Sato to go home and get my rings?” Lucy exclaimed.
“Well, Sorcha looked for it and asked a soldier to deliver it with your coat,” Sato replied.
