Return Of The Abandoned Wife

Ten

After hours of bumping and jolting along winding roads, the bus finally rolled into the small town just after sunrise. I leaned my head against the cool glass window, watching the morning mist curl around the quaint buildings and tree-lined streets like a comforting blanket. My body was sore from the long ride, and my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the day before. The ache wasn’t just hunger, it was the echo of exhaustion, uncertainty, and all the emotions I had pushed down for the past twenty-four hours.

As I stepped off the bus with my worn-out suitcase dragging behind me, the fresh air greeted me like an old friend. It wasn’t the stuffy, recycled air from the Lancaster estate. It was earthy, clean, and tinged with the faint scent of pine and dew-kissed flowers. I stood still for a moment on the sidewalk, breathing it in. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was anonymous. Just another face in a quiet town. No cold stares. No expectations. No Jaxon Lancaster watching my every move looking at me like I was someone else’s mistake.

The streets were quiet, only a few early risers passing by with coffees in hand and sleepy smiles. I spotted a small restaurant about two blocks away, its cheerful red and white awning flapping lightly in the morning breeze. My stomach made the decision for me, and I started toward it, suitcase clunking along the pavement with every awkward step. I must have looked like a runaway, or someone fresh off a long, desperate journey, because that’s exactly what I was.

When I reached the restaurant, the aroma hit me first—warm bread, simmering tomato sauce, the sweetness of something baked. As I pushed open the wooden door, a small bell chimed overhead. The place was cozy, with a dozen or so tables adorned with red-and-white checkered cloths. The scent of garlic and herbs made her mouth water instantly. Behind the counter stood a tall man with dark, wavy hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties and wore a white apron stained with tomato sauce. He looked up, and his face immediately lit up with a warm, almost theatrical smile.

“Buongiorno, bella signora!” he said with open arms as if greeting an old friend. “Welcome! You are our first guest of the day!”

I smiled hesitantly, unsure how to respond to such an enthusiastic welcome. “Good morning. I hope I’m not too early.”

“Too early? Nonsense!” he exclaimed, stepping around the counter with the ease of someone used to commanding a room. “You are right on time—for life, for food, for new beginnings!”

I let out a soft laugh at his dramatics, grateful for the warm energy. “Well, I guess I came to the right place.”

“Ah, but of course! This is Bella Vita! You will eat like royalty here.” He glanced down at her suitcase and raised an eyebrow. “Are you visiting family? Or are we lucky enough to have you moving here?”

I hesitated, I wasn’t ready to spill my story to a stranger, no matter how kind he seemed.“Just… passing through,” I said with a small smile.

“Ah, a mystery,” he said with a wink. “Every woman needs a little mystery. Don’t worry, I don’t ask more. You look like you need coffee, food, and a place to breathe. I can help with two of those, however long you are here, you are family now. I am Marco, owner, chef, entertainer, and occasional therapist.”

“Mary Jane,” I said softly.

“Bellissima. A strong name,” Marco said, waving over a young waiter. “Luca, put the lady’s suitcase somewhere safe. Treat it like it’s filled with treasure.”

Luca, a teenage boy with messy dark hair and an easy smile, took the suitcase with a polite nod and disappeared into the back. I followed Marco to a small table by the window. The morning light poured in, illuminating the worn wood floors and shelves lined with old wine bottles and cookbooks. It was charming, comforting.

He handed me a menu, but I barely glanced at it.

“What’s good?” I asked.

He looked offended, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “What’s good? Everything is good! No, no. Everything is magnificent! My mother’s recipes, may she rest in peace, could cure a broken heart with one bite.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, surprise me.”

He grinned, pleased. “That, I can do.Buona scelta!” He clapped his hands and shouted something in rapid Italian as he disappeared into the kitchen, I looked out the window and tried to settle my thoughts. The streets were starting to wake up. A woman pushed a stroller past, a man jogged by with his golden retriever, and a group of teens on bikes rode through the town square. It was so different from the life I had come from. Simpler. Quieter. Safer.

The waiter returned with a glass of water and a steaming cup of cappuccino. I wrapped my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. The first sip was heaven. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed simple pleasures like this.

A few moments later, he returned with a basket of warm bread and a small plate of olive oil and herbs.

I tore off a piece of bread, dipping it into the oil. The flavor was rich, the texture soft and perfectly baked. It made my eyes close for a moment in pleasure.

“You like?” Marco asked, leaning on the counter nearby.

“I love it. It’s amazing.”

He gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “Amazing? No, no. This is not just amazing. It is magnificent! It is art! It is soul on a plate!”

I laughed again, the sound surprising even me. It had been so long since I’d felt light enough to laugh like that.

“There it is!” Marco said, pointing at me. “A beautiful smile. You must smile more, Bella. Life is too short for anything less.”

The lasagna arrived moments later, gooey with cheese, layered with rich meat sauce and pasta that melted in my mouth. It was comfort food at its finest. I ate slowly, savoring each bite, aware of how long it had been since something had tasted this good. Or maybe it wasn’t just the food. Maybe it was the warmth of the place, the kindness of a stranger, and the faint feeling that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay.

“My mama’s signature lasagna. Don’t let the time of day fool you. This is food for the soul.”

It smelled divine. And tasted as good as it looked.

“You like?” he asked, watching me with hopeful eyes.

“It’s delicious,” I said, honestly.

“Delicious?” he repeated, aghast. “No, no! It’s magnificent! Say it with me.”

I laughed, my first real laugh in days.

“Magnificent,” I echoed, and he grinned in triumph.

“There it is again” he said, pointing at my face. “A beautiful smile. You wear it well, bella.”

I blushed.

He leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “I don’t know how long you are staying, but I hope you know, you are safe here. This town… It’s good to people.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. It was strange how he saw right through me, even without knowing a single detail. There was a warmth in his voice that felt like an embrace.

After I finished eating, I lingered over the coffee, not ready to leave the haven of this cozy place just yet. Eventually, I stood and reached for my wallet, but he waved me off.

“Your first meal in a new town is on the house,” he said firmly. “A tradition. Besides, if you don’t like my food, I’ll be personally offended.”

“But I do like it,” I said.

He winked. “Then repay me with your smile next time you come in.”

He motioned for Luca, who returned with my suitcase.

“Where to next?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said, though I held the address to the house in my pocket. I didn’t even know what it looked like yet.

“Then let me help. I’ll call you a taxi. You shouldn’t have to drag your life behind you any further.”

As he made the call, I watched him, grateful. This man, who didn’t even know my name, treated me with more kindness than Jaxon had shown in years. And that thought stung more than it should’ve.

A few minutes later, a small, green taxi pulled up outside. The driver stepped out and helped me with my bag.

The restaurant owner walked me to the car. “You ever need anything, you come back here. My name’s Marco, by the way. Everyone knows me.”

“Thank you, Marco,” I said.

“Buona fortuna, bella,” he said, and I climbed into the taxi.

As the car pulled away from the curb, I looked back at the little restaurant, its windows glowing with warmth and the smell of spices still clinging to my clothes. For the first time, I felt the tiniest flicker of hope. This place could be different. This town could be home.