Chapter 8: The Man Who Came to Christmas
We had nine days.
That was how long it took before Ren called.
Fabio had gone back to the office.
I had gone back to my own work — I ran a small interior design practice, three employees, mostly residential clients.
Normal life.
The kind of life where you eat lunch at your desk and argue about paint samples and forget, for an hour at a time, that your marriage is three weeks old and already tangled in something that started before your husband was seven years old.
Ren called on a Tuesday afternoon.
Fabio was in a site meeting.
He saw the missed call and called me first.
"He left a voicemail," Fabio said.
"He wants to have dinner.
He says he feels like we didn't get enough time at the wedding."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to say yes."
"Okay."
"Grace says she needs another week.
Maybe ten days."
"Then we have dinner with Ren," I said.
"And we smile."
The restaurant was Ren's choice.
Italian.
Expensive.
The kind of place with menus that don't list prices, which I had always found more aggressive than elegant.
Ren was already at the table when we arrived.
He stood when he saw us.
He was a large man, broad-shouldered, with his brother's eyes in a softer face.
He hugged Fabio the way men of his generation hug — one arm, firm, a single pat on the back.
"Sit, sit," he said.
"I ordered wine.
I hope that's all right."
"Of course," Fabio said.
We sat.
We ordered.
We talked about the wedding — the flowers, the food, the band.
Ren said it was the most beautiful wedding he'd attended in years.
He said Fabio's father would have wept.
I watched Fabio's face.
It was perfectly still.
"And Vivienne," Ren said, with a small shake of his head.
"That was something."
"It was," Fabio agreed.
"I hope you two have sorted things out.
She can be—" Ren waved a hand.
"She means well.
In her way."
"We've spoken," Fabio said.
Ren nodded.
Reached for his wine.
"Good.
Good.
Family is family, at the end of the day."
"That's true," Fabio said.
I took a sip of water.
"Actually," Ren said, setting his glass down, "I wanted to talk to you about something.
The estate.
There are a few outstanding items — some property valuations that need to be finalized.
I thought we could sit down with the attorneys next month and close everything out."
"Sure," Fabio said.
"Which properties?"
"The Westfield unit, mainly.
And the storage facility your father kept.
I don't think you even knew about the storage facility."
Fabio's expression didn't change.
"I didn't," he said.
"What's in it?"
"Old files, mostly.
Business records.
Your father kept everything." Ren smiled.
"You know how he was."
"I do," Fabio said.
"I was thinking we should probably clear it out before we finalize the valuation.
Some of that paperwork is old enough that it's not relevant anymore.
No point cluttering up the process."
I set my fork down very carefully.
Fabio picked up his wine glass.
"Let's not rush it," he said.
"I'd like to go through everything personally.
Dad's records meant a lot to him.
I'd want to understand what's there before we clear anything."
Ren's smile held.
"Of course.
No rush."
But something had shifted behind his eyes.
Something small and quick, like a light being turned off in a back room.
"Of course," he said again.
Dinner continued.
We talked about other things.
Ren told a story about a fishing trip.
He laughed at his own punchline.
He ordered dessert.
In the car on the way home, Fabio called Grace from the passenger seat.
"The storage facility," he said.
"Dad had one.
Ren knows about it.
Find it before Ren does."
He hung up.
I kept my eyes on the road.
"He was going to clear it out," I said.
"Yes."
"Whatever's in there—"
"He wanted it gone," Fabio said.
"Which means it's exactly what we need."
My phone lit up on the console between us.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
I glanced at it at a red light.
*You should ask your husband what he promised his father he would never do.
— V*
I showed it to Fabio.
He read it.
He handed the phone back.
"She's trying to separate us," he said.
"I know."
"Are you worried?"
I thought about it honestly.
"No," I said.
"But I think she's getting scared."
May you like
"Good," he said.
The light turned green.
