Page 45 of The Convenient Cosentino Wife

There could be no future.

Rocco wasn’t the right person. Not for her, and not for him. He wasn’t who she’d thought he was. He’d deceived them all, but it was over. She was done.

Rocco woke early, but not early enough. Clare and Adriano were gone. He’d known she’d want him to leave, or maybe even ask him to leave, but he hadn’t thought it would happen in the middle of the night. He’d thought there would be more time. He’d thought there might be another conversation. He was wrong, so wrong about so many things.

His staff treated him as they always did—with respect and formality. There was no unnecessary conversation. He was presented with his coffee and his newspaper. He had a second espresso later with a roll. He didn’t touch either.

He didn’t ask his staff for information about when Clare left, or why no one had alerted him because it served no point. The fact was, she’d gone and they knew. But did they know it was his fault? Did they know he’d brought the destruction on himself?

A brief email arrived in his inbox when he was at work.

I will be initiating a legal separation until we can begin the divorce. You are to stay away from us. I do not wish to hear from you, and you are not to contact me, or Adriano. I have instructed Gio to enforce no communication—no mail, no calls, no appearances. If you ever cared for me, you will respect my wishes. Clare

The weeks passed, and then a month, and another without another word from Clare. There was no communication, not at Christmas, or in the new year.

Christmas in the palazzo was so miserable that he realized he was done with the mausoleum of a place, and done with Rome, too. Not just temporarily, but permanently. He had grown up in this huge, sprawling marble edifice and he’d done his best to make it comfortable for Marius, but there was no reason to try to be comfortable, or happy there any longer. He was tired of taking care of it, tired of being trapped by it.

As he returned to the house from his office it crossed his mind that there was no reason to keep it. He didn’t have to. So what if it had been in the family for centuries? So what if he was its custodian? He didn’t like being responsible for a place that he didn’t enjoy. Which led to another question—what did he enjoy? Where did he enjoy being? Because if Rome wasn’t to be his home anymore, where did he want to be?

Where could he go when he didn’t feel as if he belonged anywhere anymore?

CHAPTER NINE

ASTHEMONTHSPASSEDClare grew even more unhappy. She was miserable. Beyond miserable.

She could barely drag herself from bed to her desk at her villa. She faked it, of course, for Adriano’s sake, who didn’t understand what was happening but was young enough to believe it was all temporary, and in his mind Papa Rocco was just “traveling.”

But Clare leaned on Ava more than ever, needing Ava to keep Adriano busy. From her office window Clare could see them on the lawn playing soccer. Gio even joined in a game now and then. Clare was glad Adriano was protected from the pain she was feeling, because Clare struggled to function. Dressing was a chore, eating was the most unpleasant activity she could do. She lived on coffee and now and then a bite of something, but every time she tried to chew, food stuck in her throat and it was painful to swallow.

She’d cried so much she despised herself, and the sadness was all-pervasive. Her body ached, her chest so tight and heavy that it was as if she’d swallowed an enormous stone. The grief she’d felt when Marius died was one thing, but this was different, this was, this was a pain she had not asked for or needed, a pain that stemmed from betrayal and heartbreak. Marius’s funeral had brought a terrible closure to their life and relationship, a devastating end to all those dreams they’d shared with each other. But now, Clare felt utterly lost, her heart and body no longer her own because Rocco wasn’t dead, he was just somewhere else, and that...that seemed unforgiveable. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him—she did care for him, even if she wished she didn’t—but he was too alive in her mind, too present in her heart. If she closed her eyes she could picture Rocco at the lake villa, could see him in his car, could imagine him at work, and in every image he was so alive, while she was here, hurting. Suffering.

She’d grown to hope they’d have a long life together, a good life, one filled with warmth and happiness. She thought she’d finally found happiness again. She thought, she thought... Oh, everything she thought was wrong.

It wasn’t fair! None of this was fair. If only she hadn’t given him a chance, if only she’d refused his proposal. If only she didn’t miss him so much.

Tidying her desk one day she uncovered a creased slip of paper with a scrawl of words:

I will love you to the end of time. R

Clare froze, feeling as if she’d been dropped in a volcano, consumed by lava. She flashed back to the weekend following their honeymoon when he’d presented her with the gift of a delicate pink diamond bracelet, and in the bottom of the jeweler’s box was this note on a scrap of paper.

I will love you to the end of time.

Trembling, Clare crumpled the letter and threw it in the fire, and then sobbed as it burned.

She cried for the future they weren’t going to have. She cried for the weeks of happiness she’d known. She cried for Adriano who would never know his family because she was done with Rocco, done with all Cosentinos, done with Italy.

Clare owned a small island in Greece, it was tiny and rocky with a little cove for a boat, and a few gnarled olive trees at the back. She took Adriano there, along with her immediate staff. Adriano had never been to the island and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be there. It was still winter, early February and bitterly cold and windy. The stone house felt chilly even with the furnace on, and the wind rattled the old glass windows night and day despite the wood shutters.

Adriano begged to return to the villa and the lawn where he could play soccer. He wanted to go to Roma and see Papa Rocco. He was so angry that Papa Rocco had forgotten them. Clare bit her tongue, holding back the truth. Adriano was too young, he was sweet and bright and full of light and love. He didn’t need to know how manipulative men could be.

By mid-March Clare was desperate to return to Italy, too. She knew why she’d never spent much time on her little Greek island. It was only an oasis in summer, and in the peak of summer it felt too hot.

No, the island was not idyllic and not a good place to recover from a broken heart.

Clare wished she hadn’t burned the note Rocco had given her with the bracelet. The note where he said he loved her. She knew she couldn’t trust him, but the note was one of the few things with his writing, and she wished she had something of his to keep. Just a memory.

And yet keeping love notes wouldn’t help her get over him. Because she wasn’t over him yet.

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