Page 8 of The Strength Of A Woman

She was never particularly fond of me either, but her behavior strikes me as odd, and it only reinforces my sense that she is playing a role in all this.

I wouldn’t go so far as to claim that she is pivotal in this story. You need brains for that.

We all get settled into our seats around the table as if nothing is wrong. As if they waited for Rory and me, and it’s just another day at the property.

Seeing them around the table with their smug faces, like some overly confident overlords, I recall how little I missed seeing them these past two years.

I missed New York and Rory. I wanted to get drunk on Callum O’Hara, but I never thought about them.

Lunch is tedious and boring. The food is great, as always, though.Caponata, Pasta alla Norma,and delicious cannoli.

Rory and I chat quietly while they talk platitudes, things of no interest to me, like how the weather is in New York, Flavia’s vacation plans, and some remote cousin’s wedding.

And then, as we’re about to finish eating our cannoli and the staff brings coffee to the table, the conversation gyrates toward the foals, and Sylvia looks more and more interested in my reaction to the story.

Whether I want it or not, I have to reiterate my intention of seeing the foals in September, if not earlier.

The conversation seems forced as I’d need to fly to New York only for the foals. Besides, we all know that more important things lie ahead.

I realize it’s all a ruse, a way of keeping the conversation going since no real plans for me to see the foals have been seriously considered.

As I sip my coffee, something else registers with me.

Flavia talking.

Her voice is weak like diluted tea, and her cadence is monotonous, but not so monotonous as not to notice that she’s talking about a party in Taormina.

A town on the east coast of Sicily known forTeatro Antico di Taormina, which is still used today, and also the cliffs dropping to the sea, the coves, and the sandy beaches.

What is she talking about?

Witnessing her monologue, I can’t help but study her.

Her gaze is dipped to her coffee as she rambles on about a large gathering, a seasonal party, one I’ve never seen before.

Again, what is she talking about?

And at what point have I become so suspicious about everyone, but especially her?

It’s like our lunch has been rehearsed. If it smells like a setup, it is a setup.

I drag my eyes to Sylvia.

She conveniently keeps a wilted smile on her face as if she suffers from amnesia, and last night never happened, at least not in the harsh terms I talked to her.

Her dress looks particularly washed out today. It might be the sunlight. It might be intentional. Who can tell?

She wears a pink dress with a narrow white belt and low-heeled shoes.

She’s as elegant as always but without a smidgen of glamour. No head thrown back, no arched eyebrows. No statement jewelry.

She looks like someone who’s attending a business meeting, and who am I to complain? I look like someone who’s dressed for a job interview.

Flavia moves her lips while I drag my eyes over her light green floral dress. The floral pattern is confusing at best, as the peonies resemble spring cabbage.

Giorgio seems very interested in what Flavia has to say, while I grasp a few bits here and there.

They’re planning to attend thisbigparty, and I’ve been invited as well. No one is mentioning who has invited us as a group to this party.