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you.
    p.s. I am sorry about what I said.

    I reach out to touch his note, his words. Something has changed for him; I can sense it. Something broke through his wall of despair last night. It should fill me with relief but it fills me instead with fear. I am afraid he has decided to move on. To leave me. To leave the woman he lives with but who will not marry him. A man can only handle so much disappointment in his life. The accident is already too much. With me out of the picture there would be one less thing to cause him unhappiness.
    I’m tempted to run back into the bedroom, wake Simon and beg him not to leave but I instead spend several minutes trying to convince myself that it’s not smart to jump to conclusions. Maybe all Simon wants to tell me is that he’s finally decided to go back to work.
    I go about my morning routine as if there is nothing to worry about. I shower, dress, dry my hair and put on my make-up thinking only of what lies ahead for me at the boutique. When I get to the kitchen I notice with a start that the three cereal bowls from yesterday have been washed and left to dry in the drainer. Simon, who got in so late last night that he didn’t have the heart to wake me, felt compelled instead to wash a few dishes? By hand? In the middle of the night?
    My careful attempts to stay focused on just the ordinary details of the day begin to quaver. I walk back to the bedroom and stand in the doorway watching Simon sleep. He has not moved since I got up. I walk back into the bathroom, grabbing a pen from his dresser by the door on my way. I re-read his note to me and then in small letters I write my response:
    I’m sorry about what I said, too. See you tonight.
    I love you.
    If he’s thinking of leaving me, those last three words will sound like a desperate cry for him to reconsider.
    And that’s what they are.
    I get to Linee Belle at nine—an hour before we open—but there’s new inventory to bring out and the sitting areas we have set up around the boutique to make people think they are in their own home, not in a mall, need tidying. Antonia likes to keep the coffee maker busy all day, brewing strong European coffee she buys at considerable expense. She also likes to have her grandmother’s silver tray filled with Italian cookies, which anyone rich enough or brave enough to ask to try something on will be offered. I get these things ready.
    At ten, I raise the cage that opens out onto the second floor of Water Tower Place and then set the store’s CD player to random play. A few minutes after ten, Antonia breezes in, stopping to look at my island scene in the front window.
    “Isvery good, Tezz ,” she says. She left Italy for America twenty-five years ago, but her accent is as strong and alluring as ever. “Where did you get the beach umbrellas?”
    “From Bahama Llamas on the first floor, “I answer. “Rent-free. All we have to do is tell people where to get them if they ask.”
    “Smart girl.” She heads to the back of the boutique where she pours herself the first of what will be many cups of coffee for the day.
    The rest of the morning passes by slowly and business doesn’t start to pick up until the noon hour. By one-thirty, things haven’t slowed down and I am starving.
    “ Juz go,” Antonia says to me. “You need to eat. Elena will be here in fifteen minutes anyway.”
    The phone rings then and Antonia picks it up after the first ring. She shoos at me and mouths the word, “Go,” before saying, “ Linee Belle . This is Antonia,” into the mouthpiece.
    I grab my wallet from my bag under the cash register and start to walk away.
    “ Juz a moment,” I hear her say and then she calls me. “ Tezz. Is for you.”
    I turn back and take the phone from her. She walks away to help two women looking at silk scarves.
    “This is Tess,” I say into the phone.
    There is a slight pause.
    “Tess?” The woman on the other side sounds unsure of herself.
    “Yes,” I say. “This is