Three Months in Florence Novel – My husband insisted on going to Florence alone. He had called me less and less for three months, and this time he even hung up on me. For the first time in 16 years of marriage, I felt something was wrong and called him via video. The video was connected, and a young woman appeared on the screen. “Who are you?” I asked confused. She didn’t answer but put the phone far away facing the door. The door opened, and my husband walked in. “Alex, Alex…” I called him but he couldn’t hear. He leaned in and pecked her. It is a long, passionate smooch. “Stop. No.” I shouted while tears spilled out. Then he pushed her against the door and continued to ravage her. “You cheating jerk! You will pay for it.” I shut my phone and swore in my heart.
BENTORNATO A CASA ALEX! It’s perfect. A welcome home sign and an Italian lesson for the kids rolled into one. It’s a little crooked, but I don’t care; it’s perfect. I clasp my hands to my lips and tears spring to my eyes. Good people come home to those who wait. I am giddy, drunk on the anticipation of seeing my handsome husband again. I didn’t think this day would ever come; I didn’t think I’d survive this, and now here it is. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, and as I’ve discovered during this time—wiser.
I am going to be a better wife than I was when he left; I am going to make up for not being a particularly good sport about this latest adventure. And, I am going to have to tread very, very lightly around certain subjects, because I am still furious with him for going, even if it’s not logical, and if I don’t get a handle on my resentment I’m going to strike when we all least expect it. I look at the clock. It is nearly five p.m. Two more hours. That’s all I have to wait. I can hardly believe it. Right now, he’s sitting on that plane, thinking of us. Thinking, In just a few short hours I’ll be having dinner with my family. He’s thinking of how good it will feel to see Josh and Rachel, to have them squeal with delight when he walks in that door, and then to peck his wife like it’s the first time.
And then there’s this evening. Back in my bed, back in our bed. I can only imagine what satisfying six months of pent-up longing will be like. Alex teaching Renaissance art for two semesters is hardly the same as a man returning home from war, but we’ve missed him nonetheless, and the kids are going to freak. I’m going to freak. Okay. I’m already freaking. I am pouring myself a glass of wine when the doorbell rings. Just as I reach the foyer, Josh gazelle-leaps in front of me, and throws open the door. A gust of wind blows in, rattling my empty flowerpots in the corner of the porch. A large cardboard box sits on the welcome mat, and a deliveryman hurries back to his truck. His brown uniform recedes into the darkness, his truck roars to life, and he is off. “Till we meet again,” I call after him. “You’re weird,” Josh says. “I know.” The smell of the strong summer wind mingles with garlic from the kitchen, and I suddenly think of Halloween even though it is the end of May.
It’s not normally this dark this early, but they have been predicting this storm for days now. Not a single streak of afternoon blue remains. The heavens have been slashed with broad strokes of dirty gray. In the near distance, rectangular patches of black clouds steadily move in, like ocean barges plodding their course. The tips of the oak trees that Alex planted in the yard, one after each kid was born, whip their leaves back and forth, and the wind chimes that came with the house dangle and plink above our heads. “FTD,” Josh says with his face pecking the box. “Is that like the fire department?”
“Flowers,” I say. Josh maneuvers the box about a foot inside the door and tears into it. I shut the door just as Rachel bounds down the steps wearing what appears to be a red tube top as a dress. She is a siren; she is a stop sign; she is only fourteen. “What’s that?” She leans over the stair rail and stares at the box. Her breasts bulge out of the tight dress, boosted by the wooden bannister on which they rest. Seemingly overnight, she has the body of a woman, and nobody asked me if I was ready, and I am not, and she is definitely not, and I want to stop it. “Rachel Anne Wallace, what are you wearing?” “Like it?” She comes to the bottom of the steps and twirls around. “It’s what all the women in Florence are wearing.” “Go, change. Now.” Is that what all the women in Florence are wearing? “Dufus!” Rachel says. “You can’t use that!” I am just about to reprimand Rachel for calling her brother a dufus when I notice Josh towering over the box with my meat cleaver.
He’s definitely my son. Next he’ll be chewing on nails. “Give me that,” I say. I take it out of his hand. “I couldn’t find the scissors.” “Well, this was an excellent second choice.” I should probably look for the scissors myself, but I have no idea where they are, so I slice through the tape with the meat cleaver and allow Josh to rummage inside. “You’re right! Flowers!” Josh lifts up a dozen long-stem roses. They explode from a tall green vase strangled with a big red bow. I have never seen roses so fat and gorgeous. They must have cost a fortune. My mother’s voice hovers inside me. Men only give flowers for two reasons: It’s your birthday, or they feel guilty about something. “It’s from Dad!” Josh says. I take the card out of his hands and open it. … I’M SORRY. The words echo in my head, and my heart becomes a pattering drum. He’s sorry? Why is he sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry. Get here quick so I can tell you. And peck you. And feed you. And take you to bed.
I miss you, Alex. You don’t need to be sorry. You’re coming home. Why are you sorry? What did you do? Josh is looking at me so expectantly that I force a smile. “What does it say?” “It says, ‘Just because. Love Alex.’ ” I shove the card in my pocket. “Grandma says—” Rachel starts. “Go upstairs and change,” I say. I do not need my daughter quoting my mother. Why didn’t he just bring the roses with him? Thunder cracks and lightening flashes through the room seconds before the rain tatters on the roof and slashes at the windows. Will his flight be delayed? Where is it right now? Is he safe? Don’t be sorry, Alex; just be safe. Why are you sorry? If he’s not on that plane, for any reason, any reason at all, I am going to kill him.
Rachel picks up the envelope that came with the flowers. “It doesn’t even have your name on it,” she says. “Maybe they’re for all of us,” I say. Maybe it is for all of us, and maybe it’s not so ominous. It just means he feels guilty he hasn’t been there for us, and he can’t wait to come home. “Or maybe he’s afraid of calling you by the wrong name.” “The wrong name?” “You know. Like he has a girlfriend, and he sent her flowers too.” “Rachel Anne!” “I’m kidding. I’m kidding.” “I don’t care. That’s not nice.” “You’re yelling.” She’s right. I am yelling. I’m shaking too.