Together, Estelle and Oriana read the schedule quietly. In three weeks, there was a big release party in Manhattan, followed by several signings across New England, before a flight to Europe. The book tour would span a little less than two months before releasing Estelle back to her sad life, where she lived alone in that big house on Nantucket.
“Rome,” Oriana breathed, pointing at the city on the list.
Estelle made a noise in her throat. She couldn’t muster the strength to talk about Rachelle, about how much she missed her and how curious she was about her life in Italy.
“Rome,” Estelle repeated.
Estelle hadn’t gone on a book tour since before Roland’s death. She leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed, watching the way the moonlight played along the waves. She willed herself to understand what Roland would have said, what advice he might have given her.
But it was Oriana who touched her shoulder and said, “Don’t say no. It looks incredible.”
And Estelle knew she was right.
3
Rome, Italy
Rachelle’s grand opening was supposed to be today. Yet instead of opening Coleman's doors for a luxurious multi-hour dining experience to some of Rome’s top foodies, Rachelle was wearing a pair of leggings and a big leather jacket, arms crossed as she spoke with an arrogant-seeming Italian police officer about what had happened last night during the soft opening. She’d never started smoking despite most Italians loving the poisonous activity. But the stress of it made her itch for a cigarette, if only for something to do with her hands.
The police officer was slightly older than Rachelle, with a thick mustache and bulging biceps. Apparently, he’d been on the scene last night after the fire had gone out, after Rachelle and Riccardo had gone home so that Rachelle could sob herself to sleep. Now, Rachelle was back to answer the cop’s questions about what had happened last night. The cops had called her andtold her to meet him there. Riccardo had offered to come with her, but she’d said no.
“I don’t understand any of it,” Rachelle was saying now. “My staff are highly trained individuals. They couldn’t have done anything wrong with any of the ovens. All the electricity was double- and triple-checked. The restaurant was safer than safe. What exploded? Why did my restaurant catch on fire?”
The cop hadn’t expected Rachelle to be so good at Italian, nor had he expected her to be so aggressive. Rage steamed out of her.
“Rome is a very old city,” the cop told her. “It’s entirely possible that something went amiss with the electricity. But as we dig deeper into all that, we have to ask you. Is there anyone in your life out to get you?”
Rachelle gaped at him. “Out to get me?”
“Is there someone who would want to get revenge on you in some way?” the cop asked.
Rachelle raised her eyebrows higher still. “Revenge?”
Rachelle couldn’t fathom that. All her life, she’d been kind-hearted and open. She’d never gone out of her way to hurt people—although of course she’d hurt many people along the way (her family, most of all, perhaps). But this kind of violent act, this sort of “Godfather-esque” situation had nothing to do with her.
“Nobody would do this to me,” she said.
“Think harder,” the cop urged. “Have you made any enemies here in Rome? Sometimes it’s hard to admit it, but we Italians don’t always love it when an American storms in and takes up space. Your opening a restaurant like this might have made someone angry.”
Rachelle was miffed. “No?” And then she asked, “Did you find proof of arson?”
The cop shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Not yet? Which means it probably isn’t arson?”
“We don’t know anything yet,” the cop said.
Rachelle felt enraged. She wondered if he was a sad excuse for a cop. She wondered why in the world this had happened to her, after she’d worked so tirelessly to pull this all together. It felt like the worst kind of comeuppance.
“Rachelle?”
Rachelle twisted around to find Diana March weaving through the crowd of onlookers. Upon seeing her, Rachelle immediately melted with sorrow. Diana had taken on a sort of motherly role in Rachelle’s life, especially now that Rachelle no longer spoke to her own. Rachelle had followed Diana to Italy, after all. She’d modeled her entire life off Diana’s. It meant something. Rachelle fell into Diana’s arms, but bit her tongue to keep from sobbing.
The cop went over to his other cronies to talk, leaving Diana and Rachelle alone.
“What happened?” Diana breathed into Rachelle’s ear.
Rachelle hiccuped, then pulled herself together. “I have no idea!”
