Page 80 of Falling for You Again

“I’ll call Emi right after this. I’m looking forward to hosting my first dinner party.”

She positions the last chair when I finish polishing, and I step back to take a look. The chairs, fully upholstered in a sand deco weave, are beautiful. Their fresh style and curved-back silhouettes coordinate well with the sitting area. But their wide bodies dominate the visual space. They also look vaguely familiar. I feign dropping my soiled rag and sneak a peek under the seat when I pick it up, and I feel a sharp burn of longing in my chest. Of course they’re from the Savant House. I guess Aaron will haunt me the rest of my life. There will always be reminders of him around me. I wonder, as I often have these past days, if I’ll ever get over him. Will I stop feeling that ache inside whenever he comes to mind, as he constantly does?

Isadora dramatically wipes her hands and steps back to take in the room with her new table and chairs. Her face pulls in tight. “No, no, no. This won’t do. The chairs don’t go at all. Do you not agree?”

“They do go. They’re beautiful. They’re just”—How to put this delicately?—“overpowering.” I might be biased, but the table is a work of art. It should be the room’s focal point. But it’s lost among all the fine upholstery.

“Exactly what I was thinking. I thought this would be the case, and I hoped I was wrong. I must remember I’m never wrong.” She wags a bejeweled finger, laughing at herself. “I do love these chairs, but no. They don’t work. They must go. All of them.” She throws out her arms with the announcement.

“Not all of them. Keep the end chairs. Just get side chairs that match the stain and style but aren’t upholstered.”

Isadora gives me a look. “We both know I’ll never find a perfect match to your custom table. That’s only possible if you make them. I need ten. How soon can you have them for me?”

The rush of excited anticipation of creating something new bursts inside me. I can already picture the chairs, sketching the design in my head. The lines will match the upholstered end chairs but with a narrower silhouette, and I selfishly feel a twinge of satisfaction that she’d replace Savant’s chairs with mine. Mine, of course, would be better made and of higher quality. They’d survive spilled grape juice and splattered spaghetti sauce from dinners with rambunctious children.

Then I wake up.

I don’t have a shop anymore.

With reluctant disappointment, I say, “Thank you for the opportunity, but I have to decline.”

“What? Why?”

“As of this weekend, Artisant Designs is closed for business.”

“Whatever for?”

“My uncle sold the building.”

“Can’t you relocate?”

“I would if I could, but my uncle owns the shop. It’s up to him.”

“Convince him to change his mind,” she orders with a flourished wave of her hand, each finger encumbered with stones and gems.Bangles jangle on her wrist. Isadora loves her jewelry. “Tell him to sell you the shop. You can’t go out of business. Your pieces are exceptional, your work too good. It must be shared with the world.” She dramatically swings her arms, the open ends of the sheer brightly patterned robe she wears over her linen pencil pants and silk camisole billowing outward.

“Believe me, I’ve tried. He won’t return my calls or answer the door when I’ve gone by his place.” To my consternation, my eyes unexpectedly fill with tears, and Isadora notices. I itch my eyes, trying to pass the dampness off as allergies.

Shetsks, fluttering about me. “Oh,cara. Tesoro. Figlia mia. Sit, sit, sit on this dreadful chair.” She pulls one of the Savant chairs from the table and pats the seat. “I’ll make us tea.”

Laughter bubbles, making me snort since I’m crying, which makes me cry-laugh. Then I just cry.

Isadora’s expression turns horrified. “What is it? What did I say?”

“The chairs.” I point at them, crying harder. “They’re from the Savant House.” And now I’m utterly mortified because the darn tears won’t stop. Probably because I’ve been fighting them since Aaron signed our divorce papers. It’s really over.

Isadora frowns. “Sí.Is that a problem? I know they must go. You don’t need to worry. I’m returning them.”

“It’s not that. It’s ... They remind me of my husband.”

“You’re married? When did you get married?”

“A couple of months ago. But no, we’re not married anymore. We’re divorcing, and this is the second time we’ve gotten divorced.”

“From each other?”

I nod. “It’s so much harder this time around. It’s really hitting me how much I love him.”

“Mamma mia! Forget the tea. This calls for something stronger.” She buzzes over to the bar cart, her robe flowing behind her.

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