Page 80 of These Thin Lines

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Page 80 of These Thin Lines

Except the visitor at her front door pretty much ensured that, not only did Chiara not have anything to look forward to where the morning was concerned, she also had to rapidly raise all her defenses. The ones she’d mostly forgotten how to erect after years of not having to deal with her ex-wife.

As it was, she sidestepped Frankie and jiggled her keys as she stood in front of the townhouse. She had never regretted having an apartment in the same building as her studio and shop, the flat nestled under the roof, with a beautiful view and a convenient lack of a commute. But with Frankie here, Chiara resented that convenience just a little. Because it made her vulnerable to exactly these kinds of visits.

She couldn’t even take any consolation in looking good. She knew she had no such armor to hide behind. In yesterday’s finery—now severely tainted by a long night of twisting, turning, staring at the ceiling and holding Vi—she looked like she was making the infamous walk of shame. And perhaps she’d flaunt that in Frankie’s smug face, if only it were true. As it was, Chiara was clutching her shawl around herself in a desperate attempt to cover up the marks Vi had left two nights ago.

Perhaps reading her thoughts, the smirk on her ex-wife's mouth grew lewder.

“Long night?”

“You came all this way from wherever you’ve been the past however many years to inquire about my night? What a waste of time, if you ask me.”

To her surprise, her words—which were rather tame by anyone’s standard, but certainly by her own, considering they had said so many, much more hurtful things to each other over the years—wiped the grin off Frankie’s face.

“Apologies.”

Chiara almost gasped, but stopped herself at the last second, her sense of self-preservation kicking in.

“That easy? Are you okay, Frankie? No fever? And you should probably quit whatever charade this is. I am really not ready for it to snow in September.”

Frankie gave her a long look, one Chiara couldn’t decipher, then lowered her eyes.

“I’m sincere, babe.”

She pulled a pack of Marlboros from her leather jacket and Chiara watched with something akin to a déjà vu as the oh-so-familiar fingers performed the ubiquitous dance of tearing the filter off and flicking the Zippo to life.

As she searched for something to say, anything to end this dreadful silence that could only stretch between two people who were nothing to each other and no longer had anything to talk about, the door behind her was flung open, and Chiara could swear Aoife actually growled.

“What is it with all these bad pennies just effin’ turning up around here these days? Are you lost then, Lilienfeld?”

Despite the reference that lumped Vi and Frankie into the same category, that was where the similarities ended. There was no warmth in Aoife’s features, no begrudging welcome like the one she had bestowed on Vi after the initial ribbing. Here, it was open hostility, and Chiara winced, her frayed emotions abraded further as Frankie took a long drag and blew out the acrid smoke, enveloping Chiara whole.

“Wasn’t aware I needed your permission to be on this sidewalk, Sully. This being the land of the free, or whatever bullshit they claim...”

Chiara tuned out the rest of the sermon. Now this was the Frankie she knew. This was the Frankie who had hounded her in Paris for an entire year after she’d filed for the divorce. This was the Frankie that was painfully familiar. The one with the moralizing speeches and logical fallacies, sprinkled with a wounded expression that was fooling no one, least of all Chiara.

Still, one thing was certain: the sidewalk was no place for this argument. Someone was bound to recognize them, and Frankie and Aoife’s bickering—something about rotten fish—was already turning heads.

Chiara rubbed the bridge of her nose, yesterday’s contact lenses irritating her eyes. She was beginning to regret ever getting up from Vi’s bed. Surely, an awkward conversation with her would not have been this painful.

As the voices around her rose in volume and in insults, Chiara had enough.

“Children, how about we take this inside?”

“How about Frankie leaves? She’s not welcome here!” Aoife shot back immediately, and Frankie smiled victoriously.

“I love you too, Sully.”

Chiara rolled her eyes at the two of them as she held the door open. Once inside, she laid a calming hand on Aoife’s arm, squeezing gently.

“I’ll handle this. You should get the showroom ready. The crew will be here in about an hour, and once they arrive, it’ll be nonstopgo, go, gofor the day. Help me out here, Sully.”

Her eyes must have been particularly pleading, because for once, Aoife didn’t argue and simply shook her head and disappeared into the beautiful fall tones of the silks and satins strewn all over the showroom.

“Well, now—” As they walked towards the staircase, whatever Frankie had been about to say was interrupted by a stern voice that made even Chiara wince.

“Never would I have thought, Franziska Marie Lilienfeld. You had better be dying or something equally irrevocable to show your face after everything you pulled in Paris. What the hell are you doing here?”

Renate’s bark was merciless. Unlike with Aoife though, Frankie just laughed at her sister.


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