had enjoyed in Florence: penne strascicate, a platter of grilled peppers and other vegetables, fried artichokes, and a rare, aged Wagyu steak sliced into thin ribbons on a cutting board. It was a bit much for a lunch for two twenty-one-year-olds, but she was in the mood for things she hadn’t had the heart or stomach for in fully a year.
After all, it was almost time to celebrate.
“It really does look splendid, Marguerite,” Nina told the cook. “Thank you so much. I know I made things difficult with the recipes.”
Marguerite merely beamed in response, then stepped back to wait for other instructions.
“It’s been ages since you’ve hosted me for lunch, you know,” Caitlyn babbled on. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten about all of us, tucked in your own world here with the baby. Madison said you even skipped spring fittings in Paris.”
Nina shrugged. She couldn’t care less about her couture wardrobe anymore, nor any of the silly girls who once made the semi-annual trips with her. “It’s an easy world to be tucked into. And I don’t mind doing it.”
“Isn’t that what the nanny is for, though? Honestly, N, I really don’t understand why you don’t just leave the baby at home with people you hired to take care of her.”
“I didn’t actually hire her. That was Calvin’s doing.”
Caitlyn watched with barely conceded disdain as Nina took Olivia out of the pram and cradled her against her silk-covered shoulder. Her Prada blouse would have to be laundered immediately, if it could be saved at all from the horrors of spit-up. There were worst things.
“What do you think, darling?” she cooed to Olivia. “Should Mama let other people raise you?”
“Oh, N. I didn’t mean it like that.”
But Nina was too happy to have company and good food to be annoyed for long. This meal, after all, was supposed to be an olive branch of sorts. And it was true—she had neglected Caitlyn and many others over the past few months.
She couldn’t really explain why, exactly, she wanted to remain alone with the baby. Call it a mother’s sixth sense. Maybe it was just hysteria. But for whatever reason, she always felt like something genuinely might happen to her daughter if she weren’t right by her side.
The baby cooed, her temper settled by the simple embrace. Olivia’s eyes, a dark, deep brown compared to Nina’s gray, twinkled brighter than the chandelier above them, and for a moment, Nina was looking at her child’s father. Her real father.
Peppe. With any luck, she’d see him soon.
“Please don’t wait for me,” she said to Caitlyn. “I’m sorry, I just have to feed Livy—otherwise I won’t be able to take more than two bites.” She turned. “Marguerite, can you bring some wine for Caitlyn, please? The Poliziano, please.”
Marguerite bobbed, then left to retrieve the wine. While Caitlyn began dishing herself up, Nina pulled an earlier prepared bottle from the custom Celine bag at her feet, a gift from her mother when she had returned from the spring season in Paris. It was a little odd to be using a one-of-a-kind handbag to store diapers and bottles, but Nina had to admit, she quite liked it.
“What?” she asked Caitlyn, who was making a surprised face at the paraphernalia. “I am her mother. And for the record, while I do have help, I like doing this.”
Seven months into the job now, it still felt strange to say it. Strange, and yet completely normal. She was her mother. As completely and more emphatically than Nina had ever been…anything.
“I’m just shocked,” Caitlyn said, nodding at the bottle. “Calvin seemed to think you were going to nurse her forever.”
Nina frowned as Olivia pushed the bottle away, as she often did. “I still pump, but I’m trying to get her used to the bottle for the times when I do leave her with someone else.” Then, something else occurred to her. “You talk to Calvin about breastfeeding?”
“I—no. We just ran into each other at a lunch or something.” Caitlyn waved a hand through the air like she was batting away a fly, then spooned some vegetables onto her plate. “He happened to mention it.”
Nina blinked, then focused on trying to get Olivia to take the bottle again. She still generally didn’t care for it when her mother was readily available.
“People act like six or seven months is an eternity,” she said. “Many women do this for years, you know.”
Caitlyn snorted. “Good lord, could you imagine a toddler walking up