A Second Helping

The spreadsheet glares at me from the laptop screen, a grid of red numbers that make my stomach clench. Bellucci’s is bleeding out. My fingers trace the worn edge of the wooden table, the same one where Nonno taught me to roll gnocchi when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Now I’m thirty-two, divorced, and drowning in invoices I can’t pay.

“Vic?” Elena’s voice is gentle, but it still makes me flinch. She slides a steaming cup of espresso across the table, the aroma sharp and familiar. Her apron is stained with tomato sauce, a badge of honor in this kitchen. “You’ve been staring at that screen for an hour. Breathe.”

I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Just calculating how many more days we can keep the lights on.” My thumb rubs the callus on my index finger, earned from years of gripping knives and wrangling dough. The restaurant was supposed to be my salvation after the divorce. Instead, it’s become an albatross, a beautiful, beloved burden dragging me under.

The mail slot clatters, a sound that usually heralds more bills. Elena retrieves the envelope, her brow furrowing as she reads the return address. “It’s from Rossi & Associates,” she says, her voice tight. My heart gives a traitorous lurch at the name. Stuart’s firm. My ex-husband’s world, all sleek lines and cold ambition.

I take the envelope, the paper thick and expensive under my roughened fingertips. Inside, a single sheet of letterhead informs me in sterile legalese that Stuart has requested mediation to resolve “outstanding shared asset disputes.” My gaze snags on the proposed location: a beach house near Cannon Beach. Neutral ground. A place where the ghosts of our marriage won’t haunt every corner.

My knuckles are white where I grip the edge of the table. “He wants to talk about assets,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “After two years of silence.”

Elena’s hand covers mine, her skin warm against my cold fingers. “You don’t have to do this alone, Vic.”

But I do. This is my mess, my failure. My penance for believing in forever with a man who chose spreadsheets over shared dreams. I book the beach rental, my hand unsteady on the keyboard. The confirmation email lands in my inbox with a soft ding, a death knell for the fragile peace I’ve built.

The drive to the coast is a blur of evergreens and ocean glimpses, the Pacific a slate-gray expanse under a moody sky. My knuckles ache where they grip the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure. Every mile marker feels like a step closer to the guillotine, a reckoning for choices made and paths abandoned.

I think of Stuart, crisp and polished in his Seattle high-rise, a world away from the flour-dusted chaos of Bellucci’s kitchen. He used to laugh in that kitchen, his sleeves rolled up as he attempted to chop onions without crying. Now he signs his name with a flourish, a corporate shark in a bespoke suit.

The beach house emerges from the coastal fog, a gray-shingled structure perched on a bluff overlooking the churning sea. I inhale sharply as I step out of the car, the salt air biting in my lungs. This place is too beautiful for the ugliness we’re about to dredge up. Too quiet for the echoes of our shared past.

Inside, the house smells of lemon polish and damp wool. I drop my bag in the entryway, my chef’s clogs loud on the hardwood floors. The living room is all clean lines and ocean views, unlike the warm chaos of the restaurant. I head for the kitchen, needing the comfort of a stove, the solidity of a knife in my hand.

The refrigerator is stocked with basics, the pantry sparse. I find a box of dry pasta, a can of tomatoes, a few cloves of garlic. Simple ingredients, the building blocks of survival. I set a pot of water to boil, my movements automatic, a dance I’ve performed a thousand times.

As the garlic sizzles in olive oil, I glance out the window at the endless Pacific. Somewhere out there, Stuart is preparing for this meeting too, his mind sharp and analytical, his heart armored behind layers of legal precedent. I pour myself a glass of cheap Chianti, the tannins bitter on my tongue.

The pasta is al dente, the sauce a quick marinara that tastes of desperation and memory. I eat standing at the counter, the silence of the house pressing in on me. Tomorrow, Stuart will walk through that door, and we’ll sit across from each other, two strangers who used to be everything.

I leave the dishes in the sink, a small rebellion against the order of this place. In the bedroom, I unpack my few belongings, my hand brushing the soft cotton of my favorite chef’s jacket. The embroidery over the breast pocket is faded but still legible: V. Bellucci. A reminder of who I am, who I’ll always be.

Sleep is a long time coming, the crash of waves against the shore a relentless soundtrack to my thoughts. When I finally drift off, my dreams are filled with the scent of basil and the phantom warmth of Stuart’s hand in mine, a memory so vivid it aches.

The morning sun glares through the windshield as I pull into the gravel driveway, the coastal air already saturated with salt and pine. My knuckles are white on the leather steering wheel, the engine’s purr fading into the roar of the waves below the bluff. I kill the ignition, the silence that follows almost deafening.

The beach house looms before me, its weathered shingles the color of storm clouds. Expensive, exclusive, neutral. All the things I thought I wanted. My thumb brushes the platinum face of my watch, a Rolex that cost more than my first car. A symbol of everything I’ve achieved since leaving Portland. Since leaving her.

I climb out of the BMW, my Italian leather shoes crunching on the gravel. The air is sharp, bracing, a far cry from the recycled atmosphere of my Seattle high-rise. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the tang of the ocean. It’s the same scent that used to cling to Vittoria’s hair after our walks on Cannon Beach, back when we were young and stupid in love.

My hand tightens on the handle of my briefcase, the leather smooth and familiar beneath my grip. Inside are the documents that will decide the fate of Bellucci’s, the restaurant that was once the beating heart of our shared life. The restaurant I walked away from without a backward glance.

The key code grants me access with a quiet beep, the front door swinging open on silent hinges. I step inside, the scent of lemon polish and something else hitting me immediately. Garlic. Tomatoes. The ghost of meals cooked in this kitchen, lingering like a memory I can’t shake.

I set my briefcase down on the entryway table, my eyes scanning the open living space. The decor is tasteful, impersonal. A far cry from the warm chaos of Vittoria’s family home, where every surface held a story, every wall a memory.

That’s when I see it. Draped over the back of a dining chair, as if she just stepped away for a moment. A scarf, hand-knitted in deep shades of burgundy and gold. Her scarf. The one I bought her in Florence during our honeymoon, a lifetime ago.

My fingers reach out, brushing the soft wool. It’s still warm, as if it recently rested against her skin. The realization shoots through me, sharp and unexpected. She’s here. Somewhere in this house, the woman I once promised forever to is waiting, her presence as tangible as the salt air on my tongue.

I force myself to move, to follow the scent of coffee toward the kitchen. The space is all stainless steel and polished granite, a far cry from the worn counters and scarred wooden tables of Bellucci’s. A half-empty mug sits beside the sink, a faint lipstick print on the rim. The mundane intimacy of it hits me like a physical blow.

I lean against the counter, my eyes drawn to the window and the endless expanse of ocean beyond. The Pacific stretches toward the horizon, vast and unknowable. Not unlike the chasm that has grown between Vittoria and me these past two years.

My reflection stares back at me from the glass, a stranger in a bespoke suit. The lines around my eyes are deeper than I remember, the set of my jaw tighter. Success has etched itself onto my face, but at what cost?

I think of my life in Seattle, the sterile perfection of my penthouse apartment, the endless cycle of board meetings and client dinners. The life I thought I wanted, the one I traded our marriage for. It feels hollow now, a beautifully wrapped package with nothing inside.