I press my free hand flat against my stomach and feel the baby shift, the low rolling movement, the contented one, the one she does when things are as they should be.
We talk for another few minutes, and then Anna has to go because the pastry supplier situation apparently requires her physical presence and I can hear in her voice that she is already mentally walking across the restaurant floor.
"Call me tomorrow," she says.
"I will," I say.
"I love you!”
"I love you too," I say. "Go sort out your supplier."
She goes.
I lie on the sofa and look at the water and let the quiet of the room settle around me. The afternoon light is moving across the ceiling the way it moves at this hour, slow and golden, doing its thorough warm thing with no particular urgency. Santos is somewhere in the kitchen. Tomas is in the library.
I close my eyes.
Then the door opens.
Matteo stands in the doorway with his sleeves rolled to the elbow and his pale blue eyes taking in the room with the automatic quiet assessment he gives to everything, and when he finds me on the sofa.
"Am I interrupting?” he asks.
"Anna just hung up," I say. "Come in."
He crosses to the window the way he always crosses to windows, standing with his hands loose at his sides and looking at the water for a moment.
"How is she?" he says.
"Overwhelmed and refusing to admit it," I say. "Which means she's fine."
He turns from the window and looks at me on the sofa with those pale eyes and that quiet, and I look back, and we do the thing we have been doing for weeks now, the looking, the quality of attention Matteo brings that is not like Santos's attention, not warm and immediate, but something more careful, more considered, the attention of someone who wants to get the full picture before he says anything.
"You look tired," he says.
“Thanks Matteo.”
It’s not the type of thing a pregnant lady wants to hear, but it’s Matteo so I know that he’s kidding, as his lips curl.
“I’m not a woman to mess with!”
“I wouldn’t dare! Come to the study.” he stretches out his hands to lead me to leave the very comfortable sofa.
I sigh, as I take it, thinking if there isn’t a good reason to leave this sofa, I’m going to have to come back soon.
He steers me toward the new chair in the study with one hand at the small of my back, casual enough that he might think he is being subtle. He is not subtle. None of them are, when it comes to me. They keep trying to delight me as if it is a competitive sport.
I love them for it.
The chair sits near the window where the late light pools gold across the floorboards. It is upholstered in soft cream leather, wide-seated and deep-backed, the kind of chair designed for lingering. The arms are smooth walnut, polished satin-dark, and there is a matching footstool tucked neatly beside it. It looks expensive in the restrained way Matteo prefers, beautifulwithout needing to announce itself. Comfortable enough to nap in, read in, brood theatrically in.
Very me.
"It's nice. I like it."
I run my fingers over the armrest. The leather is cool and supple beneath my hand.
Matteo makes a small sound that means he knows perfectly well I love it and is pretending not to be pleased with himself.